Tarnished
by ellenedmund
Summary: Derek Wills is the master of his own universe and he doesn't take direction from anyone. An up-and-coming star is throwing him off his game. Can he move beyond the glamour that Karen Cartwright casts? Or has Derek finally met his match?
1. A Preview

A piercing sunlight streamed across the bed from the eastward-facing windows. The bright, cheeriness of a new day was the second most insulting thing my hungover brain had to deal with this morning. The first was still curled up next to me on _my _bed. The unfortunate sunlight allowed me a cursory inspection of the room and some niggling, bothersome part of my consciousness pointed out that, technically, it was her room...or the hotel's room. Not mine. An unexpected bonus, I suppose. I hated sharing my space.

Her arms were thrown across my chest. Her legs were entwined with mine. Her hair, a tangled mess of blond curls, tickled my shoulder. I brushed it aside and sat up. My abrupt movement must've jolted her awake. The slightly bleary look in her watery, pale blue eyes, their redness and the darkness shadowing her skin just under them let me know that, at least, she'd been as bad into her drink as I had been last night. A small mercy. People were more forgiving of honest, alcohol-induced mistakes.

"You should just fuck her too, you know." Her voice was grating. I'd never liked it: a husky fakeness deadened her every word. She was renown for her voice and the more time I spent around her, the more I questioned the general sanity of her adoring public.

"What are you talking about, Rebecca?" I said. I was in no mood to placate her today. Besides, she'd be on the next jet to L.A. in no time. Her performances in rehearsal had hardly been stellar. Tonight was the first preview. Tomorrow, the press would eviscerate her and she'd cut and run. Rebecca Duvall was not above a cowardly exit from the stage. If I was a betting man, I'd put good money on Rebecca having a medical emergency that required a prompt return to her specialist doctors in L.A. and her hypochondriac friends. The only question left was how she'd pull it off. From what I knew of her performance skills, she wouldn't be able to act her way out of paper bag much less into an emergency room.

I spotted my pants across the room and made my way toward them.

Rebecca barely shifted in bed. She had pulled the sheet up to cover herself. It wended around her body like the linen wrapped around desiccated Egyptian mummies. From the moment the wretched sun had cut into my sleep, I'd been regretting her. Every movement, every word she made was making this worse.

"Karen Cartwright." This time she purred the name and I stilled. My pants, at least, were on but I was hardly decent and definitely didn't want to discuss Karen Cartwright with Rebecca Duvall. Especially not after a drunken one-night stand.

I couldn't help myself though. As with all things Karen, I simply had no filters, no barriers, no boundaries. "Excuse me?" Those two words curled out of my mouth. It was an ominous sound. Any of my actors and actresses would've known to back down. Rebecca wasn't mine though. She was on her way out of my production and even when she'd been in it, she had thought herself too far above the rest to take direction well.

She blithely ignored my tone and continued. "I see the way you look at her. She's so delightfully green. Young, fresh meat. If you'd just fuck her, you could pull her off the pedestal you have her on. You could treat her with that delightful disdain you hold the rest of the world in. You'll spoil her if you keep worshiping the ground she walks on."

"I do not worship..." I started. Rebecca waved my objection aside as she pulled herself off the bed, sheet and all.

"You do too. Everyone sees it. Everyone except, perhaps, Karen."

I wish I hadn't had so much to drink last night. I might have done a better job of hiding my thoughts. Rebecca was clever. No matter what other awful adjectives I could associate her with, I shouldn't have discounted her ability to read me.

She laughed. That awful noise bounced around the cavernous room. My head and body protested against the sound and volume of it. The presence of laughter on a morning such as this was an affront to all that I am. Or, at least, an affront to the pounding hangover that was the remnant of yesterday's drinks.

"Oh! That's too precious." She cooed. My shirt, crumpled and torn was hanging off an end table. I made my way toward it. "You _tried_ to seduce her. And failed!"

That laugh again. I was ready to kill her. She wouldn't need to act her way into the emergency room if she kept it up.

"You're doing it wrong, you know." Rebecca continued. "Karen is a little country girl. She's not someone that will say yes to a casting couch proposition. She's too new and has too much integrity yet for that approach. You're going to have to act like you love her. Rainbows, sunshine and cupcakes. That's Karen. Love is the only thing that'll catch a girl like her."

Shirt. Pants. Shoes. "Notes will start promptly at 10. Make sure you're there." I spit out as I made my way to the door.

"Derek, stop." Rebecca's voice held so much surety, so much confidence, I had no choice but to turn and find what had given her such gumption.

"Yes?" I said, quirking my brow.

The sheet had started sliding lower. I could just make out the top of her left nipple. Ripe and red. The view did nothing for her case. I was done with Rebecca Duvall. Her confidence held though: "Think of it this way. I'm your star. You should placate me. I should have everything I need. Want. Whatever."

I was ready to walk out that door. "We've been doing that since you arrived. It's your turn to deliver."

The pace of her words sped up enough that I knew her bravado was slipping, just like that damned sheet. "I'm not cut out for musical theater. I can see that." Her pitch went up. If her voice was annoying before...this was much worse. "I'm not blind. I won't be here for much longer but while I'm here, I can solve one problem for you."

A proposition. I was intrigued. "Oh yeah? And what might that be?"

"The chorus girl. The clingy one. Holly?"

"Ivy."

"I can free you of that at least. One more day. One preview. You'll be done soon."

It was a tempting offer. Ivy hadn't taken well to our end. I hadn't delivered it well, perhaps. But Ivy should've known better. Rebecca could solve that much for me. In fact, she owed me that much for the mockery she was creating of my play. I gave her a cursory nod and turned to the door. "Ten o'clock. Notes. Don't be late."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she cooed. Her dead voice following me out into the hall.

I really needed to stop drinking.

* * *

11:37AM...and counting. Within minutes of arriving Rebecca had me looking at the clock and counting the seconds til this miserable day was over. Her way of announcing our involvement left much to be desired. I don't know where she'd dredged up the giggling school girl act but it was nauseating to watch. I was quite disappointed with both my cast and crew for so quickly buying into our performance. It was true - my reputation left much to be desired but, aside from drunken one-night stands, I still felt I had much better taste than to settle on the ridiculous creature Rebecca Duvall had conjured up for the day. We ran through notes a full hour later than scheduled.

1:03PM...I wish everyone would just … leave me alone. One day. That's all this was.

Eileen definitely needed to take a step back. When she approached me backstage, I found myself parroting Rebecca's words: "I have to make sure Rebecca has everything she needs." _Wants__. __Whatever__._ I knew that Eileen was so far over her head that her ability to manage left much to be desired. "If this blows up in anyway, Derek, I'll strangle you." I walked past her back to the stage. I wanted to tell her that I had everything taken care of but I don't think she'd buy into the opening-preview-bombing-out-and-then-recasting-Marilyn plan I had lined up so I bit my tongue and kept my thoughts to myself.

3:36PM...The cast was shooting me death glares too and I didn't quite get it. Ivy wasn't the nicest girl out there. She was a snarky, back-stabbing, social climber and, yet, somehow, she'd still managed to gather a sympathy vote from cast and crew alike and a host of stalwart supporters from the chorus. Ivy, herself, was oddly detached from the whole debacle. I almost applauded her for her tact. Almost. Any encouragement thrown Ivy's way was like a declaration of intent. She was still eying the spot for Marilyn. She knew Rebecca's reign wouldn't last. I could see her plotting the hows and whys of Rebecca's downfall and her own rise to stardom. It was a commonality we shared - this stage-based foresight - but it didn't make her any more attractive. Ivy was aptly named: a clinging vine that was too common to be a highlight in a garden. Ivy was a plant that added a verdancy and elegance when left in the background but, if left unchecked, it would stretch its roots into the brick and mortar that supported it and crumble the entire infrastructure to the ground. Ivy was just that: a beautiful, useful weed that could not be given too much ground.

5:58PM...Eileen's threats still bounded around my mind. _If __this __blows __up__..._It already had, really. Not in anyway that mattered, true, but the disappointed looks Karen had sent my way was all the shrapnel I could handle for the day. _She__'__s __just __a __chorus __girl_. That had been my way of pushing thoughts of Karen aside for months now. It wasn't working anymore. Rebecca had all but guaranteed that tonight's bows would be her last and then Karen wouldn't be a chorus girl anymore. She'd be my star. I wondered how I could _placate_ her. What would Karen demand? What would her wants and needs be? I wish I could shake off her scorn as easily as I could ignore Eileen's impotent rage and the cast's weak mewls of disapproval.

6:34PM...As we approached opening curtain, the cast had settled its nerves enough that I could guess tonight would not be a complete disaster. Everyone was dashing about offering peppy wishes for friend and foe alike to "break a leg". It was a perfect stage tradition: a wish for good luck that could be said with all truth and honesty to one person and cutting malice to the next.

Rebecca sidled up next to me. Her arm draped about my shoulder and that breathy laughter that I had learned to loathe breezed across my ear and cheek. She kissed me leaving a smeary run of oil-based lipstick along my jaw. Marilyn Red. I turned to her with the barest of a smile. "Break a leg, Rebecca."

Perfect truth. A beautiful sentiment behind an honest wish.

She let her lips form a coquettish pucker and whispered back. "It's just this night, Derek. Then Marilyn is all yours again." She glanced at the audience around us. The crew was moving about the stage, preparing for the first act. Last minute props were being organized. Headsets were being tested. The cast was busy with their final makeup adjustments. No one really cared that Rebecca was still trying to make a scene. And, apparently, that's what she needed to see. She continued in a voice more natural than the girlish lilt she'd been bashing me with all day. "Remember what I said. Bring her to earth again. She's not an idol or a star yet. Do whatever you need: Love her. Fuck her. Whatever. But stop the puppy-eyed worship. You'll ruin her otherwise." With her last poisonous words of advice she flounced off to her dressing room. I knew she didn't have my best interest at heart. I doubted if she had any care for Karen's interests either.

7:00PM.

The curtain opened on our first preview night and I could finally breathe. The staging, the costuming, the chorus, the choreography: I could see my work, my vision coming together and I could feel proud of it. Most of it.

Unfortunately, my lead was wretched. Granted, she'd made miraculous strides since she'd first started in rehearsals but she had no glitter, no emotional resonance, no stage presence to save her half-hearted singing and she murdered every single Marilyn number. One after another. _Just __this __night__._ _Marilyn __would __be __mine __again__. __Tomorrow__._ My internal monologue was starting to sound like little, orphan Annie.

Tomorrow, tomorrow. It's only a day away.

But the only time I could stick out my chin and grin was when Karen and Ivy performed "Smash". It was the only time I was comfortable with the feel of the performance. The only time the show felt genuine. As long as I never had to vocalize it to her, I could admit that Ivy nailed the piece. She played the desperate simpering, sexpot to a tee. A part that she was made for, surely. And, Karen, sweet, innocent Karen. I only wish that she would play that part for me. She certainly had in my dreams.

Rebecca was probably right. I needed to pull her off the blasted pedestal. I just wasn't sure how that would happen. Karen was firmly committed to her relationship with Dev. Any attempt at seduction would offend her. She was just so _good__. _Too good to be sullied by the likes of me. If I couldn't sully her, how could I stop this fascination? She held me in thrall.

Previews would go on for 6 weeks in Boston. I'd have her here for 6 weeks and I knew that Dev couldn't just stay here in Boston for all that time. In a week or two, he'd be gone and maybe, then, I could get her to stray. Maybe. My plots and plans for Karen made me miss intermission entirely.

And, then, the ending. She delivered the script word for word. She didn't miss a beat. A note. It was well-timed and expertly delivered. That was the worst part about it. She was so dead inside that a perfectly fine script was massacred by her handling. The ending wasn't brilliant yet. It needed work. But, had Ivy been Marilyn, it would've gotten applause. Had Karen been Marilyn, it would've gotten a standing ovation. With Rebecca, there was nothing. The silence crept around the theater and smothered any goodwill audience members might have held onto for the show. A slow clap, started by none other than Julia's husband, shook its way through the theater. A catastrophic opening - a precious disaster though. It was just enough to push Rebecca into fleeing. I suddenly wish I had pinned down her plans. Was she going to finish out the weekend? Give us a week of rehearsals to prepare her replacement? No. Marilyn would be mine _tomorrow_.

I had been so excited to be done with Rebecca Duvall that I hadn't thought of the fallout around the loss of a lead performer. Little orphan Annie was wrong. Tomorrow wasn't a day away. It was going to smack into me in little under 2 hours. I only hoped I'd be ready when it came.


	2. A Star

Rebecca's plans took more than a few hours. She let the first evening of previews lapse and the second day of the show nearly begin before she drank a peanut-laced smoothie. I vaguely wondered if one of the ambitious members of the junior cast or a testy stage hand was tricked into assisting Rebecca produce her dramatic escape from the world of the stage. I certainly hoped the drama of a "poisoned" star would stay tucked into whatever dark, little corner it came from. Even knowing her plans to flee from Boston, I knew it was a little too ballsy for Rebecca to have engineered that sort of risky excuse all by herself. Everyone played their shock and awe well though and aside from the spastic flailing of Rebecca's PA, little suspicion bounded around the cast. Still, Rebecca left _Bombshell_ with much more drama than she'd ever brought to the stage.

Per her contract, any medical condition required that Rebecca get booked into a private room at the nearest hospital. I knew she'd fly out before we put on another show. Peanut poisoning, apparently allows for astonishingly quick recovery—at least for crazy, hypochondriac movie stars. I was tempted, very tempted, to ignore her during her remaining hours in Boston. Despite being only a short walk and a red line T-ride from our hotel near the theater district, Mass. General was not really on my list of tourist destinations and Rebecca Duvall, contrary to popular rumor, was currently at the very bottom of the list of people I'd like to associate with.

Even ruthless Dark Lords are struck by moments of guilt and pity. A short walk and a T ride; I did need a little fresh air.

If such a descriptor can fairly be applied to a hospital room, Rebecca's suite was elegant. Quiet. Far away from the main bustle of the hospital. Bursting with "get well soon" cards, teddy bears and flowers. I doubt she'd read the cards. The flowers would wilt and die. I wondered what would happen to the bears. I had visions of Rebecca handing out autographed "get well" bears in the children's ward. The ridiculousness of the image brought a half-smile to my face.

"Derek!" Rebecca cooed, reading more into my smile than was meant.

I straightened her out with a scowl and a curt nod.

She was willing to fight fire with fire, apparently. She started in on me right away. "You wouldn't believe who you just missed!" All bundled up with a dash of oxymoronic false sincerity. I'd believe anything of her but couldn't think of who she'd like to torment me with today. Eileen? Was Eileen on a childish rampage about stars and budgets and production delays? Julia and Tom...unlikely. They hated Rebecca nearly as much as I did.

"Karen was just telling me how very little she's cut out for show business."

Of course. Karen. She was too ingenuous to know better. I glanced at the clock. I needed to be back to the theater to hash out the schedule with Eileen, Tom and Julia soon. I'd keep this brief: "Oh?"

"She doesn't have a competitive bone in her body, you know. But I see why you have such a crush on her."

I counted to ten. Backwards. 9. 8. 7. Slowly. 6. 5. If I responded, this farewell would take longer. No responses. 4. 3. 2.

"Last time we talked, I told you to _fuck_ her. I'm not so sure that was such good advice."

"Oh for god's sake!" I burst in as Rebecca tittered.

She dropped her laugh quickly. "I'm serious though. She's a gem. If you snag her...make her run the show in my stead, you could make her a star. One of the best. You'll have to bully her through previews but she has such potential. If you don't use it, she'll waste away in the chorus forever or, at least, until some director with a little artistic foresight gobbles her up."

The worst thing about directing is that everyone...EVERYONE...thinks they can do your job. Better than you. Rebecca was wasting my time. She knew it. I knew it.

I handed her a bouquet: the last bouquet left in the gift store on the first floor of the hospital. White roses. Another set of flowers that would die by the end of the day, abandoned in this quiet room of a metropolitan hospital. In some cultures, white was funereal. A color of death and mourning. I thought it would be a fitting goodbye to Rebecca. As final as the nails on a coffin. I gave my regards and offered her as much sincerity as she'd ever offered me: "Thank you for your time working on this show. Your hard work has been appreciated and I'm sure you'll be missed." By someone else. Karen. Maybe.

She graced me with her brittle smile and I retreated. Down to the lobby to retrace my path back to the theater district and the pending disaster that was my show. As delighted as I was to have Rebecca gone, her timing was absolute shit. She waited just long enough into the second day that we were left with no choice but to cancel a performance. With a failed first performance and a canceled second, we would be hard pressed to pull out a stunning third performance sans rehearsal of the lead. And I was left in the execrable position of defending my choice with out support from Tom, Julia or Eileen.

It wasn't as if I counted on their support but it certainly would've made the task before me much easier. I arrived at the theater early but Tom, Julia and Eileen were already impatient to get started. They were geared up for a fight and, though they didn't know it yet, they were all on the losing side. On Tom's third attempt to throw Ivy into the lead position, I decided it was time for me to bring a little drama to the stage myself. I ran my hands through my hair. I was sure it was so well-tousled at this point that I could pull myself out of bed tomorrow with better grooming than I currently had today. I played out all my angst and cut into Tom's monologue. "I will not be bullied into making a decision with this much riding on it!"

"Bullied! Coming from you is, frankly, ridiculous." Tom shot back. When emotions ran high he had a tendency to pull everything I did under the lens of our historical grudge. I almost laughed at his predictability.

"This is not about bullying," Eileen tried to assuage the tension. She had some goodness left in her but then she'd remember that she was, in fact, producing the play and her panic would set in and she'd endeavor to throw her weight around, "There's just no time!" Useless truth.

Julia, of course, couldn't be left out of this. "Well, let's buy ourselves some more time." I could've kissed her for mentioning money, that would get Eileen all worked up and I could just tune them out. I'd had enough of this collaborative effort. _Bombshell_ was my show and I'd see it played right tonight. Unfortunately, the absolute shrillness of Eileen and Julia's bickering didn't give me the reprieve I desired.

I'm sure the cast was sitting just beyond the glass paneled doors of the Wang Performing Arts Center listening to every bleet and bluster of this nonsensical meeting. As such, they were casting Marilyn in their own minds and I needed to stop that before they got too set on one person. The logical choice was Ivy. She knew the show. She'd run the show. As an understudy, Karen hadn't and wouldn't have had a chance to rehearse. Not yet. Not for six more weeks. This transition would be hard enough without more disgruntled cast members. I knew who Marilyn would be. Eileen, Julia and Tom needed shut up and let me direct. It was, after all, _my_ job.

"Oh God! Enough." My voice cut through their screeching just long enough for me to exit stage left. Since the moment I woke up today, I'd been having the same conversations over and over.

I let them continue their pointless fight about money and delays. Production costs. The ending. None of that truly mattered. Marilyn's costume room had all the answers I needed. All the pieces of the performance I could visualize in my mind but had yet to see on stage. The quiet of that room – so far away from the stage – allowed me to breathe for what felt like the first time that day. I paged through the gowns in front of me. Lycra. Nylon. Silk. I paused on a red halter top that Ivy would've filled out quite nicely. Her chest was much more Marilyn than Karen's. Sex appeal. She had it. Then there was a gold sequined Maxi dress. It was for a standing number. The fabric was too stiff to allow much movement. It was a classy gown though. A Karen gown. The next was red. Again. Ivy. That was the problem, wasn't it? If I cast Ivy I'd paint Marilyn red. Nothing but sex appeal. No depth. It would do in a patch. She was perfect for the workshop but for Broadway? I wanted so much more from my Marilyn.

The final dress I looked at was a lavender suit. It was the dress of a soft, vulnerable, feminine Marilyn. Karen as Marilyn. I knew that Ivy was guaranteed to do a passable performance but if I settled on her...that was it. I might never see this play with the Marilyn it deserved. Ivy would make a good show. It would sell. (Sex always does, doesn't it?) I wanted more than "good" though. I'd waited long enough. It was time to get Karen and see if she could handle a day of non-stop practice. I needed to see if my girl on her pedestal could crash down to earth and rise back up again. I might not need to sully her at all. I could shatter her today if I wasn't careful. Shatter her on the hope that, one day, I could have it all: the innocence of Norma Jean and the raw sexuality of Marilyn. The only question left was: could she pull it off? Unrehearsed. With no ending? It was a lot to ask of any actress – but an untried girl from Iowa? Was I being unrealistic about my girl on her pedestal? _You'll spoil her if you keep worshiping the ground she walks on. _

She was _my_ Marilyn though and I was directing wasn't I? _You could make her a _star. They'd all worship the ground she walked on after tonight. And she was a star...she just didn't know it yet. Clearly, I had a lot of people to set straight. The nice thing about being known as an arrogant tyrant is that when I've decided on something, I can throw the full force of my obstinance into making it happen. I left the costume room so quickly the hangers jostled and clattered like bells in my wake. Linda, the stage manager, was waiting for me just beyond the door. She took one look and let a half-smile grace her tanned face. We worked well together and I knew she'd help me get this pulled off. She didn't ask any questions and without direction she went off to herd the company together.

I went to the stage and the cast came. Promptly. Like good little toy soldiers. They marched down the aisle towards the stage. Julia, Tom and Eileen were still fluttering around the theater unaware of my casting decision.

The lights were on full and their yellow glow was blinding. While I knew the cast was making its way forward, I could not see individual faces. I had to hope she was there. And ready. "Where's Karen Cartwright?" I called over the din. She was scared. I could hear it in her voice as she pulled herself away from her fellow chorus members. "I'm here." A quaver. We would have to eliminate that before seven o'clock.

"You're going on as Marilyn. Tonight."

* * *

A/N: I truly appreciate the lovely reviews you've left. They're inspiring me as I write! Thanks! Accolades and constructive criticisms are always welcome. :)

As a side note, in this chapter and the next, you'll probably notice much of the dialogue is directly from the show. Derek is going to have a pretty awful day leading up to that performance so there isn't a lot of down time or un-screened asides. This is his POV so I'm in his head a lot but I'm going to try to remain true to the show up to the end of the Season finale. So, uh, familiar dialogue is probably more to do with the fantastic work of the writers of Smash and less of me!


	3. Distractions

Distractions were everywhere. My cast. My crew. The producer. The writer and lyricist. I felt like I was in a room full of TVs turned on to stations with nothing but static. Varying pitches of static hum. My head was starting to throb.

Karen was the only one striving to remain professional and she, frankly, wasn't doing a terribly swell job of it. I'd clearly let the cast sit on their own theories about who should be Marilyn for too long. They performed as they should but the cold shoulders and whispered asides Karen was being lambasted with did little to ease her nerves. She was strung so tight I was afraid she'd snap in half. Julia and Tom certainly weren't helping either. Instead of writing my new ending, they continued to scurry about backstage. I knew they were waiting for Karen to crack, to fail. I wasn't going to give them the pleasure of seeing it though.

The quaver in her voice was fading as she got more comfortable with the scenes. It was just a question of time. Did she have enough to truly get through this?

I needed to eliminate the distractions.

The crew was prepping for a full dress rehearsal. Tom stalked about stage doing an admirable impression of a distraught director. "Are we even going to run everything?" he crowed.

I replied in the affirmative choking back my desire to tell him to get the fuck off my stage and finish writing that final song. I didn't need him more self-righteous than he already was right now. If Tom's feathers got ruffled, he might set off Ivy and the rest of the cast would follow in her wake. With all the politeness he didn't deserve, I asked him to do his job: "What about the new song? We need that." Last night, I wanted to add. But I didn't. And, they say I'm never nice. With a huff, Tom was gone. And, once I could stop Julia from being an over-protective mother hen, I could get back to blocking my lead through every aspect of the show.

Distractions. The script. The technical aspects. Karen Cartwright.

We were just finishing a third attempt at Mr. and Mrs. Smith when the lighting failed and the theater was plunged into darkness. Karen didn't have the right lyrics and every time she was left to her own devices she turned her back on the audience. A rookie mistake. Still, she managed to do it again and again. I didn't have time for technical hiccups today. I cursed the light crew. And then, I looked to the stage. The velvety darkness obscured most of the set. And, I could see, again, why I'd chosen the hard option of getting Karen ready in one day.

The emergency lighting made her glow on stage. Her delicate features shown even in the darkness. Her eyes. Those rich brown eyes, too big for her face and mirroring her every emotion, showed determination. She was still scared. Her eyes told me that as well. Julia remained cast in shadow though I could hear her as she talked Karen through the shift in the lyrics. I wondered what science was behind how light would gravitate only to Karen on the stage when everything else was trapped in shadow.

I half wished that everyone could see what I saw in her. Instead, I knew I was going to have to be bull-headed about this. She was the perfect person to play Marilyn. Everyone else just needed to come to terms with it. Karen just needed to come to terms with it. As the technical crew reset the stage lights, I pushed thoughts of Karen aside to focus on thoughts of Marilyn. _Distractions._

* * *

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

The staccato rhythm of the dance number of Lexington and 52nd Street was being called out. I could feel a pressure headache creeping up the side of my temple. Rebecca was four full inches taller than Karen. Four inches was an absolute nightmare. The dresses cut to be short and sexy on Rebecca made Karen look like she'd been measured with a Catholic boarding school in mind. And the long dresses! Their only use was to swiffer the floors whenever Karen tried to move. An army of seamstresses had been brought in to hem and pin and shift the wardrobe. They'd be lucky if it was half-way ready by curtain.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

Tom flounced in. He was trying for congenial when he addressed me. "Derek!" He was breathless. I wondered how long it took him to get up enough courage to come up here. Did he wait at the bottom of the steps, pacing until he was ready to face me and then just dash up here? He inhaled too rapidly and blurted: "We need to put the brakes on for a moment."

He wanted to continue the discussion of casting. Ridiculous. We were several hours into the day and he wanted to re-cast. Thank God Tom wasn't the director! Did he have any idea what that would do to the company's morale? Fortunately, he was easy to put off. Until he'd completed his job, he really had no place to complain about mine. "Why? No new song yet?" It wasn't really a question. I knew they weren't anywhere close to being done with that final song.

"The song's almost done. We're polishing the lyrics..."

"Go and finish it." I let my inflection patronize him where my words could not. He fled from my presence and I returned my attention to the stage. The seamstresses had managed to hem the dress for Wolf and I called for the number to get started.

A door just below the start of the orchestra boxes opened a crack. Just enough to let some of the early afternoon light cut through the darkness and, of course, enough to let Dev Sundaram ooze into the theater too. An irrational anger churned inside of me. More distractions! I knew Dev was the worst distraction of them all. It took every ounce of professionalism and patience that I had not to throw him out of the theater. He was unhelpful and unnecessary at best but if I threw him out right now, it might be just enough to tip Karen off her game. If his superfluous presences could keep her on beat and on time for cues, who was I to complain? For today.

Then she missed her cue. I called a halt to the song. "And where are we Ms. Cartwright?" The vice grip on my brain tightened a fraction more. Impatience and displeasure were seeping into my direction no matter how hard I tried to keep it out. Fortunately, Karen didn't complain. She did, however, parade out on stage in a satin brassiere and a slip. I was glad for the headache, the distance from the stage. She was, in a word, delicious. I almost hoped she'd mess up her costume cues and come out on stage like that for the actual performance. It certainly would hold the audience's attention. She'd certainly raise the _opinion_ of any hot-blooded male reviewer.

Instead of adjusting opinions, Karen merely raised the dress over her head and called back, "We're trying Mr. Wills." She was trying. I knew that. I just needed more than an attempt. I needed success.

She hit it on the next try. Dead on. Brilliance. That song _was_ an Ivy song. Rampant sexuality was an area that Karen struggled with. She had emotional vulnerability but she never managed to be as brassy as Ivy when it came to vamping about as Marilyn. But, she'd nailed it. It felt good to know, beyond doubt, that my choice was right.

I wondered if she saw him when she came out on stage. Dev. If her brilliant performance of Wolf was somehow tied to that lily-livered wannabe politician. Success at the price of Dev, an absolute berk. I wondered if I could stomach it.

"Derek," Ivy's voice pulled me back from my speculation. "Why wasn't it me?"

I don't think naïve has ever been a word associated with my person and maybe I was playing a little bit into the Pollyanna hoping that I could put off this moment for another day. My world was flipping. I had just watched Karen pull off Ivy's song with all the sultry heat that Ivy would've managed and now, Ivy Lynn was doing a damn fine job of effortless emotional vulnerability. There was nothing I could say to make this better. To make this easier to swallow. "Ivy, don't do this now." At least, I warned her.

"You know I could've done it." Her words grew plump with the tears she was just barely holding back. I was thankful that she kept the tears in check. Her words, however, squeezed and smushed into each other as they poured out. "I know this show as well as you do. I stayed up with you night after night, helping you with it. It doesn't make any sense, Derek." My name as a plea. "If it was going to be a nobody...why not me?"

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you're on the verge of death. This, clearly, was the death toll for our relationship. Association. Whatever. All our shared moments. Brief flashes of sinuous, beautiful intimacy. A perfect distraction from the hard press schedule of this production. And, with the same hot and heavy flash point, I recalled the vibrancy of our fights. It is not without chagrin that I remembered how Ivy would air our personal grievances for an audience. This, most likely, was the reason we would never really work. Don't let it be said that I do not like Ivy. I do. Quite a bit. I might even say that I love her. In some aspects, she's the female version of myself. Ruthlessly dedicated to the art, above the general murk and muck of an average Broadway career, cynical and beautifully mordant. But Ivy was an actress through and through. She could not withstand the temptation of playing everything for an audience. Dating her, on some levels, was like dating myself. Her desire to _display_ every aspect of our relationships was like public masturbation. Unnecessary. Distasteful. Exhilarating at times and mortifying at others.

She didn't heed my warning, of course. I was left with nothing but the truth. The cold and painful truth. "I see her. In my head." At least Ivy was so emotionally ramped up that she wouldn't hang on to how _crazy_ that sounded. "She just has something." _Everything._ "Something that you don't. That's all." It was on the tip of my lips to apologize but that would've come across so patently false. Ivy didn't deserve more lies from me. If I said sorry now, it would've been for us. For using her to relieve my frustrations during the workshop. For ending our association so ignominiously. For being the slimy, low-down director she'd once called me. I was sorry for that but not for casting Karen as Marilyn.

Never for casting Karen as Marilyn.

"I see." She held herself together admirably. "Thank you for being so honest." Honesty, to Ivy, was a dirty word. She was so use to trading in white lies and shaded half-truths. Honesty could be a poison...as much as a peanut could be a poison. I hoped she'd shake this off in time for the curtain. I didn't have time to deal with Ivy right now. Another distraction. Clearly, the defining characteristic of my day!

Ivy stopped to exchange words with Dev, of all people, before fleeing backstage. We were similar even in that regard – a shared hatred of that worthless twit.

With Ivy all bothered, the rest of this day was sure to have a downhill trajectory. I made my way to the stage only to have Linda push me into giving the company a break. Although the actor's union would mandate it, I thought the petty ten-minute break to be a complete waste on a day like this. It wasn't as if anyone was going to relax. They could have all the down-time to rejuvenate after tonight's performance...union contracts be damned.

And then there was Eileen. "Derek," her voice shredded what little remained of my patience. I had definitely made a good run of it but I was done.

"What?"

"Admittedly, that was thrilling but it's the only number she's got right all afternoon." Although he was a sleazy asshole, moments like this made me pity Jerry and his twenty plus years of married life. Eileen was a producer that brought two things to the table: good connections and money. She was good for very little else. Worse yet, she thought she could do more. It was like watching a small child dress up in her mother's clothes and try to run the house. It was very _cute_ when she was play-acting but when she actually tried to do anything, disaster was soon to follow.

"Eileen. We have four more hours and, in that time, I assure you that we will be ready."

"I don't understand why you're doing this, Derek. Ivy has..."

Karen chose that moment to reappear on stage. Her eyes, coffee black and steaming with emotion, screamed at me. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I had guessed she'd overheard Eileen voice her concerns but the betrayal bleeding off her face meant I'd missed something. Something much bigger than nerves and lagging confidence.

I gave the barest sliver of my attention to continuing the conversation with Eileen. Everything else I trained on Karen. "Ivy has done an excellent job as a member of the chorus. She will continue to hold that position tonight," I said without thought.

"But..."

Karen made a sharp turn and stalked toward Dev. Of course. Dev. I strained to hear what they were saying. I caught fragments over Eileen's continued fantastical narration on how I should change my direction. Ring. Ivy. And then, Karen: "A mistake! Is that what they're calling this now?" I'm loathe to admit it but Karen's rage did not make me nervous about the show. No. It gave me my first glimmer of hope that I'd had in months. Prince Charming had made a mistake. A wonderful, glorious mistake.

Eileen was spewing some nonsense and I summarily cut her off. "Linda, I want the wing marked backstage where Karen will change for Wolf. Have two hands there. One for the footwear, the other for the dress. And call Ms. Cartwright up to the stage. I need to speak with her." We shared a glance. "Now."

Karen threw something at Dev. A ring? She returned to the stage ill-suited for a jovial flirtatious number. I caught her eye and held her gaze. I wanted to let her know that I had her. She'd be fine. She'd make it through this.

Eileen was the first to speak though, distracting me from my wordless communication. "Karen. Hi. We, uh, just wanted to tell you how much we appreciate all your hard work today and um..." The condescension was going to make me vomit. Karen wasn't sure what was going on. Her confusion cut through whatever other emotions had been playing across her face.

It was time for me to take over again. "Karen. We're going to look at the costume change into Wolf then you and I are going to talk about Act 2."

I pulled her away from Eileen. Pulled her to safety.

"Derek?"

Or not. Apparently, Eileen had not finished venting her spleen. I, however, was finished with her. My tone was not conciliatory. "You listen to me. Okay? I hate collaborating." I emphasized this by jabbing my finger at her. "I hate it. I'm an artist and a storyteller. This is my vision." Or it would be if everyone would quit lobbing distractions my way and let me get on with it. "If you want a hit then _be quiet_. And I will give you one. And afterwards, you can say 'thank you'."

I turned back to Karen. Her wide, doe-eyes were going to eclipse her face soon. "Karen," I said, modifying my tone, I hoped, to one less...vicious. "Let's go."

* * *

She'd disappeared. One moment, we were getting ready to rub Eileen's face into how well Karen could pull off Act 2 and then she was gone. I knew that complete and utter git had thrown her off her game but to outright walk out? My anger at Karen was belittled by my rage at the source of my problem. I'd emasculate Dev if I found him. I'd strap him to a table and cut off all his dangly parts with a dull blade. He'd scream an aria for me before I was done with him...

Naturally, the cast was a-buzz with speculation. My quick scan of one of the changing room showed Ivy holding court with Sue, Bobby and Jessica. She looked like a cat that had just discovered it lived on a dairy farm. Her absolute joy made me ill. Her success was my failure really. My vision of _Bombshell_ lay with Karen...not Ivy. I didn't begrudge her the drive to succeed but I certainly wasn't going to give up without a fight.

I was getting frantic in my search. Places that seemed illogical to look were suddenly on my direct trajectory. With Eileen, Tom and Julia all for casting Ivy, time was of the essence. Karen needed to be on stage dazzling them. Instead, she was MIA. I went out the fire escape. And, predictably, the alley was a Karen-free zone. Dev stood there, however, and I suddenly wished I had all the time in the world. I wished I could give him the tear down he deserved. Bloody fucking wanker. He might have ruined my play. Might have ruined his girlfriend's chances to make it big. (Or, was I getting this right? Was she, god-forbid, his fiancée now? Or, better by a touch, ex-fiancée?). Despite the irreparable damages he'd wrought, he stood in the alley looking hurt and self-righteous. It was beneath me to talk to him. _Distraction_. He was beneath me.

But, I couldn't help myself: "What are you doing here?"

The little arse-wipe had the nerve to respond with an attempt at bravado: "It's none of your business." He said that with all the dignity of a seven-year old caught elbow-deep in the cookie jar by the nanny.

"Actually, do you know what? It is my business." Hell, yes, it was my business. He was fucking with my star. And screwing my show over in the process. "I don't really care what's going on between you two." Well, that was a bold-faced lie if I ever said one. "But you need to back off." Truth. "And let me get her through this." Rebecca's voice echoed through my head before I could stop it: _You'll have to bully her through previews. _This show was making me crazy. The vague sounds of traffic coming off Tremont Street was the only noise in the alley until I added the final truth with a gesture towards the theater. "This is who she is and she's mine now."

_ Mine. Mine. Mine._ She was mine if I could find her. I slammed the door and it felt wonderful.

Hope is an awful thing to lose and I was on the verge of it before I saw the earring. It was the most glorious, immaculate earring in the world. Like a star breaking through the fog on a winter's night, Karen's earring...Marilyn's earring...glinted up at me from the dark floor.

The costume room. Good girl. I'd fled there to gather my thoughts earlier too.

The dress.

A shoe.

She was hidden behind the gowns. Curling into herself as if she was trying to disappear. She made a pitiable picture to be sure but I could see why Ivy had always envied her so rigorously. Even with tears draining down her face, she was gorgeous.

"Go away."

Karen was unlike anyone I'd ever dealt with before. Not that I always endeavored to get favors from my lead actresses but her refusal of my initial proposition was a first to be sure. More often than naught, I had to go to great length to avoid the talons of up-and-coming talent. I was on shaky ground here and I knew I must tread carefully.

"Well, darling, you drop bits of Marilyn along the way like bread crumbs. You have to be a bit cleverer than that if you don't want to be be found." I started with a little light scolding. A touch of humor and maybe...

"I can't do it." Ah...we'd be playing the game "Two Lies and a Truth". This was a clear lie.

"We both know that's not true."

"I don't want to do it." Lie.

"That's not true either." I didn't think we'd be getting to truths soon and time was not something I had in spades. A new tactic, then. I plopped down next to her. She'd stripped of everything but that brassiere and slip. It was fast becoming my favorite Karen-look. I sat close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin through my slacks. _Distracted, distracted, distracted! _I took a deep breath and offered a meager effort to sound interested: "Okay. What happened?"

She, thankfully, caught the hint. "It doesn't matter." Ah, there's the truth.

"Actually, no, it doesn't. Art isn't therapy. We aren't here to work out our personal problems. We're here to take those problems and completely exploit them – to hell with how much we hurt. Actually, the more we hurt the better." Another truth. I'd need to offer some lies soon if I were going to keep up in the game.

Karen swiped tears from her cheeks. I marveled at how her skin didn't turn puffy and red like most people. A beautiful crier...she was ridiculous in her perfection. I could hear the anger in her voice when she told me to bugger off. A positive sign to be sure. Any emotion beyond that all-encompassing self-pity was a step in the right direction.

I listened to her excuses for a half a minute and an absolutely vile part of me delighted in her sorrow. "...you don't understand because you don't understand love.'' Our game of truths and lies was getting more difficult to discern. Did I understand love?

"It doesn't matter if I don't. You do. Marilyn did. You always had so much of her at your finger tips. And now you've got the heartbreak." I knew we were wasting time. Time, of which, I had very little left. Still, I wanted to pull her to me and offer her a greater comfort than my words. To hold her scantily clad body next to mine – feel her heat on more of me than just the right side of my trousers. _Distractions. Distracted. _Damn. Damn. Damn.

Instead of doing what I wanted, I stood and pulled out that lavender suit. "Come on, darling, you are needed on stage." She was ready for this outfit now. For this number. I offered her my hand which she took, gingerly, and I lifted her from the floor and helped her become Marilyn once again. "Everyone is concerned for you." Ah...and there's the lie. Half the cast was crowing over her supposed fall and Ivy was gunning for the lead. "There's no place I'd rather see you than center stage tonight." Another lie, I think.

When we returned to stage, I saw Ivy first. She glowed in her red-spangled dress. She was triumphant and it hurt, cut real deep, to watch her realization that I would be victorious sink in. I didn't mean to hurt her, truly, but I couldn't let her win. She shrugged off her loss well. Very well. She was the consummate actress and she knew that the show must go on.

_Bombshell _did go on. Tom and Julia waited til the last possible moment to pull together our final song but the performance was beyond perfection. For Rebecca's first performance, I sat in the audience. Some might say it was a subconscious attempt to distance myself from a show I did not feel was worthy of holding my name. That was simly untrue: it wasn't subconscious at all but an absolutely deliberate decision. For Karen's first show, I remained in the wings. I wanted to be there in case I was needed. For anything. I wasn't needed though. Like I said, the show went off without a hitch; it was perfection.

Karen was adjusting herself for the final number when I brushed away the stage hand and zipped up that glinting, stiff, sequined gown. She'd be blinding on stage. Sparkling out at the audience. They loved her already but this final number would cement it. I moved in closer to her than I had any right to be. Her waist was so delicate and small I felt as though my hands could span the whole of it.

She startled a bit when she realized I was behind her but I didn't give her time to flee from me. I gripped her hips and leaned into her. She smelled of roses and powder, familiar and exotic at the same time. "Whatever happens next," I pitched my voice low so the lingering stage hands or extra cast wouldn't hear me. My words were for Karen only. "Don't ever doubt...you're a star." My next words rolled out of my mouth without stopping to check with my brain. "And I do understand love."

She walked to her mark without looking back at me once.

Her song was agonizingly exquisite but I couldn't bring myself to enjoy it. What the hell was I thinking? Eileen was right about one thing: there was far too much drama backstage in this production. I'd been doing a terrific job of skeazing out as the director having slept with both the lead of the workshop and, with many regrets afterward, Rebecca Duvall. I should probably take a break from my actresses for a bit. I didn't need to add Karen into the mix of absolute chaos that was my personal existence at this point. And, of course, Rebecca's too sharp observations were following me like some perverse Jiminy Cricket, chirping at me in the darkness: _love is the only thing that'll catch a girl like her._

Rainbows, sunshine and cupcakes.

Bloody Fucking Hell.

* * *

A/N: A couple of notes...

On the recommendation from a delightful reviewer, I've down-graded the M rating to T for now. There's a number of things I've got to get Derek and Karen through before anything extra steamy happens. It is likely to change into an M-rated story later...sorry to those of you who'd prefer not to read such stories. And, yes, Derek Wills curses but it is unlikely to be anything you don't hear on the street. If the language mortifies your sensibilities, let me know in a review and I'll bump the rating back up to M.

Oh...and, I'm fleeing the country for three weeks and sincerely doubt it if I'll have time to post. Sorry! At least this one is an extra long update? ...Right? (Please don't hate me forever). I'll do my best to promptly update as soon as I get back. And, joy of joys, I'm done with the season finale so, uh, everything from here on in will be from the dark recesses of my brain. I guess.

And, of course, reviewers are always worshiped and adored... Please give comments, criticisms and your thoughts/opinions on the story. I'm not finished writing it yet so, who knows, maybe you can sway the direction it takes with an insightful review or two! (Inter-textuality is a gem, isn't it?)


	4. Sleep Deprivation

As the applause thundered through the Wang Theater, I was startled from my thoughts when a warm hand clapped me on the back. I turned to find Sam behind me. He and some of the rest of the cast were returning to the wings in preparation for their bows. He offered me a smile and a brief "Good job!" It wasn't much but the company was normally quite leery of interacting with me outside the strictly necessary and that show of goodwill from Tom's current boyfriend, no less, meant more to me than it should have.

The audience hadn't tired of clapping. It wasn't the warm cascade of noise that greeted a well-done performance nor the tepid accolades of jaded theater fans who'd just finished viewing yet another play. _Bombshell_ was going to be something more. After tonight, there was sure to be a handful of fanatics that would go out and sing our praises. Word would spread. Expectations would grow. We'd started something epic tonight. Karen's standing ovation was as deafening as it was lengthy. I gloried at every second it lasted because each clap was a hammer nailing into Eileen, Julia and Tom just how wrong they were. I'm not above gloating and the hell they put me through today allowed, no, demanded that I take every opportunity to rub it in.

As the company made their bows and basked in the heat of the spotlights one last time, I watched the jubilant high of a most successful performance work its way to them. They clambered around Karen, grinning and laughing. Ivy was the only one whose smile was forced. She looked peaky. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on her upper lip. I wondered if she was just tired from a long and undoubtedly disappointing day or if she was on the verge of sickness, a relapse to whatever bug she'd caught prior to the workshop. I hoped it wasn't a bug. We had four days before our next set of performances and I did not want to have to re-cast and shuffle primary cast anymore.

Such worries, surely, would wait until tomorrow. There was already much talk about celebrations and post-show shenanigans. With one of six weeks abroad down – and a final performance that was guaranteed to garner rave reviews – we couldn't help but seek to gratify ourselves with a lot of alcohol and a little bragging. I had yet to make my way to Karen to offer my congratulations but since I was separated from her by a sea of excited and emotive cast and crew I figured I could hold off until we reached the site of the after-party. The day had been painfully long for all of us and, while the general mood buzzed with goodwill, someone had made a very smart, executive decision that all celebrations would take place at the hotel bar instead of the standard designation to a Lansdowne Street club or a flashy martini bar.

The hotel was not far from the theater so we waited backstage until a majority of the audience had filtered off into the night before escaping from the stage door in groups of two or three. It took very little time for us all to re-congregate in the rooftop bar of our hotel. It was an overly polished affair with the not-so generous Boston pricing but, compared to downtown Manhattan's standards, it was both spacious and rather reasonable. I didn't even bat an eye as I offered to pick up the first round.

We were well into a third round of drinks, however, when I was beginning to regret my wretchedly early trek to visit Rebecca. The trip out to Mass. General started my day a full two hours earlier than necessary and I was starting to feel the effects of sleep deprivation.

My observation skills were impaired and I found this to be a crippling effect. My job dictates that I'm good at it. Great, really. It is what I do day in and day out. I observe others. I can pick out when the faintest details of a production are off. I can tell if an actor's elbow is an inch lower than a pose dictates from the back row of the orchestra boxes. I have high expectations for my productions and if I find details that aren't right, I correct them. If the actors aren't right, I am fully able to make them see the error of their ways.

Normally, this standard of assessment tints my daily interaction too. I can't just turn it off and on. But, tonight, no one was meeting my expectations and, for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what exactly was causing the trouble and I had no way to adjust tonight's outcome. It was debilitating—this feeling of powerlessness.

I could guess at it but I'm reluctant to do so. Relying on guesswork is sloppy. Still, approximating the source was the best I could do a the moment. _Sources_, I should say as I watched Ivy and Karen circumnavigate the bar. It was a carefully orchestrated dance of avoidance for each time Ivy would move, Karen would too. It was as if they had calculated the greatest possible physical distance from one another and strove to maintain it with every step.

I wasn't the only one that saw it. Everyone noticed and, as such, a dark pall was thrown over our supposed celebration. I think that cast and crew alike had difficulty figuring out with whom they ought to place their loyalties. Ivy was the established queen bee of the chorus. She may not be the sweetest girl but she knew how to have a good time and most of the company had been in and out of a number of shows with her. That kind of exposure grows bonds, solidifies confidence and makes fast friends.

Then there was Karen. She was a touch naïve at the best of times but that quality made some of the cast rather protective of her. And, truly, she was an absolute sweetheart. She was the kind of person you'd call if you got into a spot of trouble and had nowhere else to turn. She gave off the vibe that she'd do anything in the world—for anyone. It was exceedingly difficult not to like Karen. And, clearly, our success tonight most definitely rested on her shoulders. Even die-hard Ivy fans would find it difficult to argue with the fact that a) Karen performed the part _very_ well and b) the performance went off without a hitch. They could grumble about my dictatorially casting and last minute blocking but they couldn't complain about Karen's performance.

And, yes, I know Ivy and Karen have always had a tenuous relationship. Ivy was bitterly and brutally jealous of Karen and, I'm sure, after our little exchange of honesty today, that situation was only going to amplify.

Tonight, however, Ivy didn't have her normal edge. Something was wrong with her and I was very frustrated with my inability to know what the source of the wrongness was. We had talked briefly when I had first arrived at the bar. She'd made her way toward me and offered a smile that wasn't a smile. "I should offer my congratulations then," she'd said with a soft slur already on her voice. I wondered if she'd taken a nip or two of the booze some of the actors and actresses kept backstage to calm nerves and I frowned at her.

"I think everyone did a wonderful job tonight. Congratulations are deserved all around. You came through in the end – I've seen you do those numbers a million times and tonight's performance was your best by far." It was a weak sort of compliment. It wasn't her performance that made the show tonight and she knew that. I was still feeling guilty over my earlier comments though and I wanted to offer her a balm of sorts. Maybe some hope, however false.

"Yes. In the end," she cryptically replied before tossing me a heated look. "You won't ever be happy, you know. You don't have it in you. I couldn't wish for anything more." Her last line was Ivy at her most cutting. And for the first time that night, the world felt right. Ivy sauntered off to the bar for another drink. Well, she was not going to wake up happy tomorrow either if she kept this pace of drinking. I shook my head. Ivy was a grown woman and I had no say in how much or how little she ingested.

So, Ivy showed signs of recovering from her funk and, if she'd been the only screw loose, I'd have chalked it up to her pouting about her status as a chorus member. But Karen, too, wasn't herself. She had misplaced that sweetness we were all use to somewhere between the theater and the hotel bar. When she smiled, each one was jagged and sharp. When she laughed, it was a harsh sound like the shattering of glass. She should be ecstatic about her success. She knew that, too, for she was striving to act like she was. She was failing. Miserably. I was thrilled that her acting on stage tonight was much more believable than this after-hours show. Watching someone who was normally so genuine be so insincere was unnerving. It was almost profane.

What had Karen said when we were tucked away in the costume closet? "My whole life is completely..." Completely what? She'd been too choked up to actually finish the sentence but the meaning was clear enough. Her whole life had been ruined. Or so she thought. Dev had proposed that much was clear. And, Ivy...somehow Ivy was involved in all this but no one seemed to know about it. The cast whispered and hypothesized when the Ivy-Karen dance of avoidance left them bereft of their dark company but I didn't trust their assessment much.

Bobby, catty little bastard that he was, figured that Karen was shirking Dev because her association with Rebecca had given her a taste for more. I was tempted to ask him more of what but knew he didn't have the slightest clue. I pitied the poor soul who dated Bobby. His idea of a relationship was a calculus equation. A mathematic more and less and give and take. Besides, I knew from experience that Karen wouldn't shirk Dev off lightly. Even for a taste of _more_.

Jessica and Sue seemed more sympathetic to Karen but it didn't stop them from speculating an array of unforgivable sins that Dev could commit. Sue seemed to think that Dev had cheated on Karen. With Ivy. It was a ridiculous theory, really. Dev was an absolute arse but, even he had more sense than to cheat on Karen with her greatest rival. To cheat on Karen at all was almost a sacrilege...she was the type of girl made for devotion and worship and monogamy. And if a jaded bachelor like me could figure that out, Dev with his politician's hopes should see the 2.5 kids and white picket fence to which a future with Karen would lead. There was no question that Dev had done something but _what_? This mystery was killing me.

The source of my pent-up frustration finally deigned to waltz into my sphere of interaction. That, of course, meant that Ivy was now on the opposite side of the room talking with a solicitous Tom. I'm sure my name was being dragged through the mud over there so I returned my focus to Karen. Sue's amazonian build dwarfed Karen as she pulled her into a hug and whispered something I couldn't discern. Congratulations or sympathies?

Although my quest for knowledge was burning me up, I'd give Jessica, Sue and Karen five minutes of girlish chit chat before interrupting. Karen's cold laughter and false smile had fallen away some in the presence of these friends and I knew I'd have a better chance of getting her to talk if she was less on edge.

Okay, not five minutes, three and half was clearly enough. I approached the trio brandishing four shots of tequila, limes and salt. Sue gave me an appraising look. "Are you congratulating her or trying to kill her?" She asked with only a hint of an edge to her voice, her arm still slung protectively across Karen's shoulders. Like most of the company, I could tell that my presence in such an informal setting was making Sue and Jessica uncomfortable. This didn't bother me. I was counting on it to get a moment or two of Karen to myself.

"I don't care if it is peanuts or alcohol poisoning, I'm done with sick starlets." I responded with an eye roll. A chorus of uneasy laughter met my comment. "I'm hoping the lime juice will prevent a hangover tomorrow so we can all get to rehearsal on time," I replied.

Jessica grabbed her shot and looked at me confused. She was too use to me being serious all the time and directing...she didn't catch my attempt at a joke. "Does that really work?" Or, maybe, I'm just really rusty with my delivery.

"I'm pretty sure tequila shots have never staved off hangovers," said Sue dryly.

Karen thanked me quietly and assessed me with a look that made tendrils of heat shiver down my spine. My confidence in my inability to blush was momentarily shaken by her look but no one else seemed to notice anything was askew. I grabbed my shot with my right hand, held it high, and said "To _Bombshell _and its stars." Licking salt from my left hand, I tipped the shot back and then bit the lime. The ladies followed suit with the well-practiced maneuver.

Tequila gone, we settled back into whatever else we had been drinking and speculated about reviews and the future of _Bombshell _on Broadway. It didn't take long for Jessica and Sue to determine that they were not really wanted or welcome though I remained on my very best behavior and did not actually tell them so directly. Non-verbals can be amazing things.

It was after maybe my fifth quirked eyebrow and smug nod that Jessica made an exaggerated yawn. "I'm beat!" she laughed with an equine snort. "Truly, Karen, you'll have to get up early to snag the papers and see your reviews." She followed that inanity with a wink that was so unnecessary and kitschy it took all my willpower not to roll my eyes. Karen, however, smiled. Her first authentic smile of the night. She hugged Sue and Jessica again and watched them quietly as they set down empty glasses, settled whatever tabs they had stacked up and fled the bar to a waiting elevator.

_Mine, mine, mine_.

I glanced over to see Sam had his arm draped across Ivy's back as she continued whatever powwow she was having with Tom and thanked my lucky stars that the dance of avoidance wouldn't kick up again just yet. It was time for belatedly extolling the virtues of Karen's acting today. I cleared my throat and started, "You were fantastic..."

"And you have exceptional timing." She cut me off. A very un-Karen like thing to do. And she complimented me on my _timing_. If I was lost and confused before, it was nothing to my current perplexity.

"Excuse me?" Sleep deprivation: Lost, confused and, apparently, lacking any verbal eloquence.

Karen directed her gaze at me. I was still standing along the bar but she had turned in her stool so that her legs brushed against my outer thigh. The thrill of the touch probably did as much damage to my verbosity as my lack of sleep. It wasn't as if Karen hadn't been so near me before but all our previous interactions I'd instigated. My director's prerogative. I'd held her in my arms while showing her dance moves. If I was correcting her positioning, I'd get so close to her that she had to tilt her head up to give me eye contact; her breath would run a hot path across my jaw line and I'd struggle not to respond to such innocent provocation. Even that single glorious moment at my apartment – "Happy Birthday" and the fifty cold showers that followed – I'd been the one to direct the action, to insist on occupying her space. Karen only ever pursued me in my head, in daydreams and imaginings. Tonight, the roles had flipped and she was the one on the prowl. Part of me wanted to rejoice at it...the saner aspects of my nature knew that wrongness still hovered around her every action and I desperately wanted, no, needed to figure out just why that was.

"If you had tried a line like that a few hours earlier, I'd have...well, I'd have _wanted_ to slap you." A timid laugh. Real but weak.

"A line?" I think her brush against my leg had deprived my brain of enough blood to cause permanent damage.

She mocked my accent surprisingly well. "And I do understand love." Another laugh but this one rang false.

Still, I had no words and no ability to stop blurting out: "I do..." Karen's eyes flashed and I stumbled out with more. "...understand love. What makes you think I don't?"

"Derek, I've watched you blow through two relationships in under three months like a tornado whipping razor blades. If you have any understanding of love than you have no compassion."

I should've had a witty comeback. I wanted to defend myself. But I was too slow and she continued unabated: "No one who could be so _unfaithful_ can claim to understand anything of love." Bitterness laced that word.

She made 'unfaithful' sound so poisonous that, sleep deprivation or not, I fully understood the root of her anguish today. Unfaithful, was he? Dear ol' Dev had found someone to do the nasty with? Had forsaken Karen for another woman? I was walking through landmines on a beach and knew I should tread carefully but, truly, I wanted to throw back my head and crow. He'd cheated on her. An unforgivable sin, indeed.

_Mine, mine, mine._

I won't lie. I want Karen. I had since I'd first seen her. First heard her sing. And, in my own way, I'd been true to her. If I had cast Karen in the workshop, she'd have never made it this far. She needed an opportunity to struggle through adversity. Or Ivy. A synonym, I suppose. And I'd provided that. I had nurtured that tight competition between them, accelerated by my relationship with Ivy (though that was mostly unintentional), and it had made Karen who she is today. Stronger. Better. With the cast supporting her...some of them at least.

Still, to Karen, I'd slept with the enemy. With Ivy. I'd propositioned her and misused my power. A sick feeling clenched its claws into my gut as I briefly wondered which of us, Dev or myself, had committed more unforgivable offenses before I pulled myself back into the moment.

And love_._ She felt I didn't understand it but she was so very wrong. In truth, I rarely associated love with women: I love my work. My art. My craft. I love stories and song and the perfection in entwining the two. I love success. Success and perfection rarely meet in my relationships with the fairer sex. So, perhaps, I don't understand that soul crushing love that she spoke of: the devotion to one person. The inevitable heartbreak and pain of that thoughtless emotion. _Love_.

Pathetic overtures aside, I knew what I wanted. I _want_ Karen. I had wanted her to be the star of this performance and I had gone to great lengths to make sure she could manage it. I had gambled on her inability to turn down a position in the chorus and I had won. I had worked with her. Trained her. Hardened her. Won her friends. All of it was done to make her the star she was today. I understand _desire_ and _want_ and _devotion_. What more is love?

Rebecca was right about one thing: I had a unthinking obsession with Karen. I had achieved my long-held goal of making her Marilyn but I wasn't sated. I wanted more. Before Dev had screwed up, _more_ was off the table. But, now, there was a chance...if I could figure out how to navigate through the minefield. Rebecca was absolutely wrong too. I don't think that I could just pull her off "her pedestal" with just one fuck. Oh, no, I'd taken months to hone Karen into the starlet she was at this point. I'd need months of recompense before I'd be done with her. But a relationship with Karen would eventually end. All relationships did, after all. I couldn't jeopardize this show by another frivolous attempt to date the lead.

I'd paused far too long in the conversation and Karen had taken it as her prerogative to continue: "But your lack of compassion might be just what I need. You don't _love_ me and, please, don't even pretend that you do, but Dev felt that it was acceptable to sleep with my rival and, now, I'll be frank, I'm very tempted to sleep with someone he feels is his rival."

Wait? Her rival? Ivy and Dev. Hn. I'd never have guessed that. Poor choices for Ivy, really. And Dev. But I hardly cared about that. And, was she really going to hand this to me on a silver platter? Would I really accept being a revenge and rebound fuck? For Karen? Probably. This was too good to be true.

Again, my silences were filled by the un-Karen that was sitting next to me. She laughed her new, brittle laugh. "You'd be just perfect. Dev would be livid."

Maybe my brain was starting to function again. Maybe I'm just a masochist but I noticed the subtle slurring of her speech and I stopped her with two very true but luck-killing words: "You're drunk."

"So?"

She almost lisped through her petulantly phrased 's'. Absolutely sloshed. If this were a graphic novel, I'd have a red-suited devil on one shoulder and a white-winged angel on the other. The Devil me would be repeating Karen's word with more proper enunciation: "So?" And, the Angel would be shaking his head and looking forlornly at me.

"So," I paused just long enough to let Karen's eyes lift to mine. Her focus was off as well. "You haven't the slightest idea what you're saying and you would regret every syllable of it tomorrow morning."

Karen started to protest and I cut her off. "When I sleep with you, I don't want regrets clouding any moment of it. Darling, when you wake up the next morning in my bed, I want you to not be able to walk away because you had such a satisfying night not because you're splinched by a hangover."

I, clearly, had caught her off-guard. Her eyes widened and her breathing shallowed. And, I was sure that she was going to be renewing her arguments shortly when the whole bar erupted in a spasm of excitement and terror. It took me longer than I would've like to pinpoint the source and when I did, I started forward.

Ivy was on the floor. Sam was kneeling at her side and Tom stood futilely flapping his arms above her. She was having a seizure and a thin stream of dark liquid was seeping from her Marilyn-red lips. Coffee grounds. It looked like coffee grounds and that thought alone kept me from feeling the utter horror that captured the rest of the bar's patrons.

"Call an ambulance," I shouted over my shoulder to the bartender; uselessly. I could already hear the sounds of sirens echoing on the street outside. And, within seconds, the elevator opened in the corridor beyond and spewed out several EMTs and a gurney.

They did what they did. Checking her pulse. Heaving Ivy onto the gurney. Wiping away that coffee grounds fluid. As they finished their tasks, the leader stood and eyed the surrounding people. "Does anyone want to ride with her to the hospital?" she said with that lazy Bostonian accent cutting at the ending of her words. She waved at the pale, unconscious form of Ivy.

As director, it really was my job to do such tasks. We were, I suppose, at a work event...however after-hours it may be. As a recent ex-boyfriend, I may not have made the best choice but I started forward anyway. I was stopped by Tom flinging his hands up. The movement warded me off from my progress towards the door. "You've done enough for her already," he sneered. "Her _friends_ will take it from here." Without a further exchange of incivilities, Tom turned and stalked out with the paramedic. Sam frowned in Tom's direction and offered softly: "I'll keep you appraised of any real news." With an apologetic shrug, he faded into the corridor beyond the door.

Again, I felt lost. I hated how frequently this feeling had dogged me today. Ivy's abrupt departure in the hands of medical professionals had put an end to all celebrations. I watched as one-by-one, the cast and crew packed up their belongings, paid their tabs and fled the bar. I thought they had all left when I felt a presence behind me. Someone was standing close enough that I could feel the slight warmth of their person. I turned, expecting to see one last straggling member of the cast offering weak excuses and calling off for the night. Instead, I was greeted with the sight of Karen. Her facial expression curiously bland, she offered me a glass. Whiskey—neat—which I accepted with a flash of gratitude.

The event with Ivy had a sobering effect on Karen, apparently. She seemed more herself though she was still nursing a drink. "I'm sorry," she offered. I didn't know why she was apologizing but she was kind enough to clarify. "I'm sorry for being so crude earlier. I shouldn't have been."

I glanced at the wall clock and realized that, somehow, we were fast approaching that 2 o'clock witching hour when all bars closed. The bar staff was giving Karen and myself, the only remaining people, cagey looks. I shrugged, quickly finished my drink, and offered Karen my arm. "I'll walk you back to your room," I said.

She slid past my arm. "I'm so wired. I think I'll stay up a bit longer." I quirked a brow. Karen, even this un-Karen, was terrible at lying. She was drunk and exhausted. She saw my incredulity. "Fine! I...uh, I'm going to stay in the lobby. Til 6. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"Whyever are you loitering about the lobby when you need rest?" I responded.

"Dev leaves for the airport tomorrow. At 6. And, well, I thought it would be easier this way. It is only four hours and you don't need us until noon."

That first part of her statement wasn't entirely true. She had thought it would be easier to seduce me. And it should've been, all things considered. "Karen, I can't leave you to plod about the hotel tonight. I have one of the cast in the hospital. I've had an awful run with my Marilyns so far. I cannot afford to have you sick or exhausted."

"I'll be fine." She insisted.

Fortunately, I was more stubborn than she. "I've a king-sized bed. You can have half."

She looked at me skeptically but her exhaustion or the alcohol-induced acceptance of bad decisions won out. She nodded, accepted my arm and we made our way to the elevator. She truly was exhausted for she leaned into me for support and closed her eyes. She might have been asleep for all I knew but when we reached my floor and I dropped my arm to her waist, she moved along with me out of the elevator. Although I couldn't see it from my vantage, I felt that she had not opened her eyes and this was like some sort of bizarre trust walk: me leading Karen blindly to my room where I'd all but promised to behave myself.

As luck would have it, I fumbled with my key card. The seconds of delay meant that Dennis— the inimical, gossipy, close-friend to Ivy nightmare that was Dennis—returned to his room down the way with a bucket of ice. His eyes gleamed with an unholy delight as he watched me usher the oblivious Karen into my room. I'd inadvertently given him the most juicy gossip. A caustic, vile gossip that would flip allegiances and sympathies from Karen to Ivy. Everyone in the company tomorrow would think that Karen was sleeping with me. Well, she would be _sleeping_ with me but they'd think she was fucking me. And only hours after Ivy had collapsed with...with whatever had taken her down tonight.

Karen had disappeared into the bathroom and I went to the windows to look out. It was late and, aside from an intermittent taxi that glided down the dark street, Boston was asleep. It had gone against everything in my nature to turn Karen's proposition down tonight but I had done it to protect her. To protect the show. She said I cut through my relationships in a typical Iowa fashion: "like a tornado whipping razor blades". She'd see what New Yorkers could do with razor blades tomorrow. If she thought the cast was unnecessarily vicious before, the cuts she'd take from those who believed Dennis's tale would be deep and constant. I told Ivy once that there's nothing safe about being a star. I had hoped that Karen wouldn't need the same direction.

I must have stared out the window longer than I had thought for, when I turned, I saw Karen had settled on the bed. She had slid out of her heels and was already asleep. Her little black dress had left an expanse of white thighs open to my perusal. I shrugged out of my shirt and pants but thought that Karen might not appreciate waking up tomorrow with me au naturel so I pulled on a pair of sweats that were rolled and on the top of my mostly un-packed luggage.

I was exhausted. Sleep deprived. Mildly drunk. In other words, I was desperately, desperately in need of rest. Tomorrow was going to be a hell of a day one way or another. But the moment I got into my bed, the awareness that Karen Cartwright was lying only a foot or so away from me buzzed to life in my brain. I lay, staring at the vaulted ceiling listening to her soft breathing. The steadiness of it told me she had no such problems. She was fast asleep.

She was on top of the covers and she had to be cold. That was my justification. I eased out of bed and careful not to wake her (though a full orchestra playing Rossini's William Tell Overture would likely not wake Karen tonight), I lifted the covers and tucked her into them before getting into the bed next to her. She had chosen _my_ side of the bed to fall asleep on and I was only correcting the mistake.

Her moments of sleeping atop the coverlet had left her skin chilly to the touch so, gently, I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her. Karen still smelled like powder and roses though a subtle twinge of alcohol lingered along her skin. Unconsciously, she must have appreciated my body's warmth because with a soft hum, she curled around me. Her face resting on my bare chest, her breath running across my skin. I let my hand tangle into her hair and brushed her forehead with a quick, light kiss. Never would I have imagined that this would be the way I'd first get Karen Cartwright into my bed.

She was a balm to me. The world that was so sharp and angry before disappeared. Finally, I fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: And, no, I'm not back from vacation but this fanfiction writing stuff is kinda addictive. Anyway, I finished this and thought it might be a touch cruel to hold out til I'm back.

Many thanks to all of you who have left me such nice reviews. This earlier-than-it-should've-been post is for you.


	5. The Road to Hell is Paved

While I stand behind the general sentiment of the old cliché, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade," it is often times horridly inaccurate about the sort of shit life dishes out. What if life doesn't give you lemons at all? What if, instead, it hands you a beautifully wrapped package of the most gloriously delectable milk chocolate, drizzled with raspberry sauce? Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Well, now, say you're lactose intolerant. And diabetic. And bizarrely allergic to raspberries. You can't exactly make lemonade out of chocolate and that whole diabetic thing would probably make lemonade inadvisable, too. What then?

Karen moaned a little as the light from those damned east-facing windows struck her face and I swore that I would never, ever take a room with windows facing in that most accursed direction again. She didn't wake though. Instead, she blearily nestled further into my shoulder and my whole body tightened in response. Softly I coaxed an arm behind her head and I turned her face away from the light to allow her to unconsciously tuck herself into my arms.

Apparently, if you're me, you eat the chocolates and just pray to every slightly benevolent deity out there that the fallout isn't too heinous. Since the sun hadn't woken her up yet, I could shield her for just a little bit longer and wonder about a world where this scenario was even remotely feasible. In the cruel light of the new day, I concluded that any scenario I wanted was, sadly, not.

It was just after 9 o'clock and, considering the lateness of the hour in which I retired, I really, truly should not have been awake. The sun and Karen were conspiring against any further rest, however. Karen didn't share the space well. Or, perhaps, she shared it too well. She was practically painted onto my body. I could feel her every curve, the smoothness of her legs, the taut run of her marginally clad torso. And, although it wasn't unusual to awaken in the mood for an amorous endeavor, especially when draped with a beautiful woman, I was typically never this hard without some...assistance. I needed an exit strategy but all I could think of was the tantalizing prospects of an _entrance _strategy.

Early this morning, I had gone to bed with such good intentions. Karen would get some rest in my room and then, after that bastard Dev fled back to New York City, she'd return to her room, her bed and her station as my up-and-coming star. Nothing more, nothing less. But those last fleeting thoughts of being good were lost to last night's—or this morning's—drunken foolery.

Karen couldn't just return to her room no harm, no foul. She might not be aware of the pending catastrophe but I was. Catastrophe, your name is Dennis. I'd be terribly surprised if the news that Karen was _sleeping_ with me hadn't already worked its way through the company. It likely had last night at 2 o'clock. Dennis would put in a call to his good buddy Bobby. They'd chortle with glee over the impending fall of little Ms. Iowa and tsk-tsk her salacious behavior. Stealing Ivy's boyfriend. For shame! Then Bobby would call Jessica and Dennis would call Sue and the train of unending gossip would continue until the whole hotel knew that Karen Cartwright was lying in my bed. What they did with that information, I could only guess.

Everybody loves it when an angel falls. Or when the top kid in the class fails the exam. Most of them would be glorying in the mud they could fling. The only ones who wouldn't know yet were those who had gone early to bed and had managed to stay asleep last night. So, leaving this room today would mean to all that Karen had stabbed Ivy in the back while she was down. Granted, it was ridiculous that a) anyone would consider Ivy's proprietary rights over me to be valid; b) Ivy would get any sympathy on the matter when she had been the one sleeping with significant others to begin with; and c) we didn't actually sleep together in any sense they'd mean.

Worse still, there was very little I could do to change the image we painted last night stumbling into my room.

I know my strengths and weaknesses. I'm a damn fine director and I can schmooze and flirt with the best of them but I am not a "people person". I far prefer the reluctant respect bestowed on me by my cast and crew than any boisterous camaraderie I might dredge up by fraternizing with them all on a daily basis. My casts tend to bond together to overcome the challenges I throw their way. And, yes, I was fully aware that I was generally _persona non grata_. I fondly collect nicknames too: the Dark Lord, Sauron, Dr. Doom, and, my personal favorite, He Who Shall Not Be Named.

Had body-snatchers switched my personality with that of Michael Swift, I might've been able to go up to Dennis, clap him on the back, and say something inane like, "I'm so glad I let Karen crash in my room last night. Can you believe that crazy girl was going to hang out in the lobby til her low-down, cheating, ex-boyfriend left?" And, that would've been that. Alcohol aside, no body-snatchers graced me last night. The nameless Dark Lord simply could not clap people on the back; at least, not to offer half-believable excuses for gossip-worthy behavior.

I glanced quickly at Karen. A soft frown was tugging at the corner of her lips and she turned further into me. The sun wouldn't give her much longer in the land of dreams. I shouldn't have jinxed it for, just as the thought flickered across my mind, Karen stirred. Her lips were pressed to my chest so when she spoke, I felt every grumbled word. "Dev, please close the blinds."

I had been thinking dark thoughts before but that command pushed me over the edge. Karen Cartwright came to me willingly last night and I had been an absolute saint about it. I had only the best of intentions. I did not take undue advantage. And, despite my generosity, today Karen and I were going to be crucified for every possible imaginable sexual position that we supposedly held in our den of debauchery last night. And. then, she bloody well had the nerve to call me _his_ name.

I might as well be hanged for a sheep than a lamb.

I flipped Karen over so she was on her back and I rested in between her sleep-warmed legs. The full glare of the morning sunlight fell across her face, which I'm sure was not pleasant. She blinked up at me, fear-twinged shock and confusion warring for supremacy on her face. I did the only thing I could think to do: I kissed her full on those rosy lips. Hard.

When intimidated, Karen's unnaturally large eyes blink faster and she fidgets something fierce. A scared bird routine, I'd called it. Now, I anchored her fluttering hands by the wrists. I pulled them up til I could lock them against the headboard. I half believed that if I let go, she'd flit and flutter right out the window and fly far, far away.

I wasn't particularly enjoying this act of dominance. I didn't want her scared. Still, I needed to make a point and I wanted it to be one she never needed to hear again. "You told me not to pretend that I love you," I related harshly. "And I won't. You want to use me to piss off Dev? And Ivy? That's fine. But I will not have you call out another man's name in my bed. Especially not his."

The spasmodic motion of her hands ceased. I could see her trying to remember and reprocess everything in her hung-over and sleep-addled mind. I was thankful, again, that Karen had such a glass face through which I could see as each thought settled and locked into place. A fascinating array of emotions whirled across her face. Asleep: she'd been with Dev, safe at home and blissfully content. Awake, Dev was an ex, nearly 300 miles away in New York City, and she was trapped in a hotel room—not her own—and so, very, very _not_ safe. These thoughts registered and then a stubborn calm fell over her. I'd seen it before but Karen's ability to gird herself and rise to any challenge never ceased to leave me in awe.

Up close, I saw the decision In her eyes before it was enacted and I braced myself for a fight. Her response, however, was surprisingly weak.

"Derek, wait. I...I need to think about this." She thrust her hips forward in an attempt to push me off of her. The move _so_ didn't help her argument as my lower half was now firmly weighing in on my side—the side of keeping her right where she was.

I kissed her again. She wasn't unaffected. Her lips parted slightly and I took the opportunity to capture her lower lip in my teeth.

"Think then," I managed to mumble as I shifted so I could nibble a path down her neck. Karen tasted as sweet as she acted. It was intoxicating.

"I was drunk. I, uh, I... need time," she huffed at a loss for better words and I immediately ceased my ministrations. _Honest, alcohol-induced mistakes_. Damn it! Why did she have to play that card? I relied heavily on others' forgiveness of my inebriated misjudgments. It would be the peak of hypocrisy to hold Karen to hers.

That didn't mean I was happy about it. I practically growled at her: "That's not what you said last night." This interlude needed to be concluded. Fast. Thoughts of being with Karen—being _in _Karen—were clouding my mind. My judgment with her had always been a little suspect and, now, I wasn't thinking at all.

Drunken Karen would've taken me as I am, as nothing more than a vile, vicious rebound fuck. Sober Karen, per usual, wanted nothing to do with me. Though I had no right to feel upset, that thought bothered me. It cut through my desire like paper through skin: soft and nearly unnoticeable at first but then full of sharp pain and lingering agonies. I'd feel this cut all day. Since I pride myself on my control and, normally, I am always in control, the last few days had been abysmal. I was losing it. I didn't like this feeling. _These_ feelings. And, Karen Cartwright lay at the heart of it all.

Karen must've seen some hint of the melancholy lurking in my eyes because she softened underneath me. It startled me enough that I let go of her wrists. She was quick to pull them off the headboard.

"I know," she whispered, her right hand moved to my face as she acknowledged something beyond my understanding. She used it to brush an errant strand of hair off my forehead and then rested it over the 3-days shadow of my lazy shaving habits. "And I'm not saying 'no'...I just need time to think through this." Maybe it was a trick of the light but her eyes seemed to darken as they took me in.

I had no choice but to kiss her again. This time, her lips parted under mine and she returned my kiss. Her right hand moved into my hair, mussing the part she'd just fixed. It was a hot and heady perfection: Karen entwining with me. This time when she thrust her self forward, it was not to push me away and I took the opportunity to encircle her with my own arms. I could drown in this kiss. In her. I didn't want it to end. But she'd asked for more time and, though I may be an asshole in all other aspects of my life, this much I could grant her. I pulled away and admired the flush I'd put into her cheeks. "Time." I offered as I sat up so that I was kneeling between her legs on the bed.

She smiled a full, real-Karen smile and pulled herself up. She thanked me, kissed my cheek and stood to leave. I was still reliving that second kiss so I almost didn't catch her before she got to the door.

"Karen, wait!" I called. It was my director's tone. Harsh and pointed. Like a good little actress, she spun around on her spot.

"Dennis," I started running my hands through my hair again. "He was in the hall last night. He saw us as I tried to open my door."

Karen processed this bit of information without a hint of emotion. I trusted that she would know what that meant. She'd dealt with the bitchy cliquishness of the company for months now. She nodded to let me know she heard and before she turned back to the door, she said, "I'll see you later, Derek. I've a couple of things to finish up and my director's a real hard ass. I'd hate to be late to rehearsal." A half-smile this time. It was heavenly for it was still real and still for me.

Then, I recalled that I'd promised her _time_. Bad karma, my wretched past lives, and all my sins combined had clearly managed to drop me down into the lowest pit in hell.

I sat staring at the empty doorway long after the door's click had signaled that she was gone.

* * *

A/N: No matter how I edited this, I couldn't in good conscience keep it rated 'T'. Derek's language is pretty unchecked and, well, the relationship will be progressing. I've posted this chapter under the 'T' rating but if you are searching for this story in the future, you'll have to change the rating parameters to include 'M' from this point forward. Naturally, this doesn't mean they're going to be hoping right into bed and screwing like bunnies but we're heading in that general direction.

Credit for all the clichéd wordplay goes to reviewer MareG8...Her review sparked an idea and I just hope it wasn't too atrocious. :)


	6. When it Rains

After I finally showered and had a chance to check my phone, I saw that Sam had not called to apprise me of Ivy's condition. Instead, I found a clutter of surprisingly coherent texts from him. Or, at least, I assumed they were from Sam because prior to tonight, we hadn't been in communication outside of rehearsal, and so each text was from some unidentified New York number. I wondered if he'd had to ask Tom for _my_ number and grinned at the thought.

Today at 2:18AM

arriving at MA general now

Today at 3:12AM

Ivy admitted. They r pumping her stomach

Today at 4:06AM

Ivy took prednisone. P + alcohol = bad combo.

Today at 4:46AM

Ivy not up yet but they want 2 keep her for psych eval. T's staying here. C u at rehearsal.

He likely hadn't gotten back to his hotel room until six o'clock. That turn-around with no sleep would be brutal. His poor choice in men aside, I appreciated Sam's steadfast dedication to my show and almost felt badly for him.

My general feelings of congeniality for Sam continued right through rehearsal because, not only did he show up and do his part with next to zero sleep, he was also one of a very small handful of company members who didn't pretend Karen was invisible. It was a seamless shunning. When she was Marilyn during the run through of the show, everyone was all song, dance and smiles. They were cue perfect, and I couldn't even snit at them during notes. As soon as there was a pause in the performance, however, they simply made Karen disappear from their reality.

The cast hadn't been so full of sly bitchery since the first day of workshop rehearsals. When Karen bounded in with all her bubblegum charm and goodwill on the wings of her tight competition with Ivy, she was met with the stone cold hospitality of a distrustful Broadway chorus. Eventually, she wore them down. Before last night, she had allegiances of her own—a place cut out by her ruthless tenacity instead of the standard claw and backstab.

When Karen walked into rehearsals at noon today looking fresher than she should have given her very late night and copious drinking, only Sam, Michael, and Sue offered her greetings with a normal degree of cheer. The rest of the cast glared or turned their backs on her the moment she came near. With the covert mutterings and concomitant hair flips, it was as if we shifted from _Bombshell_ to _Mean Girls _during each break.

Karen handled it better than I would have. She offered no excuses, no complaints. She was as sweet and charming as ever to those who deigned to talk to her and pretended not to notice the direct cuts everyone else handed her. However, it was clear to me and everybody else that she was not happy, instead she was subdued when not glitzing about the stage as Marilyn. Though I was grateful that she did not pick up that syrupy false cheer she played all last night, it bothered me that I was the cause of this discord, both in her life and in my show.

Even ignoring the unnatural feeling of sympathy, in all honestly, today I was absolutely enthralled with her acting skills. She could not have been feeling the exuberance she threw into her role, but I had no criticisms to make about the character she brought to life. Aside from a need to practice, practice, practice, Karen was performing the lead with a finesse and strength that Ivy and Rebecca hadn't ever uncovered.

The cast didn't dare offer me the same treatment they offered Karen, although I vaguely wished that someone would try. I desperately wanted to cut someone—anyone—down to size. I was in a particularly bad mood this morning. Lack of sleep, an achingly unfulfilled start to the morning, and the childish but irreproachable pettiness of this rehearsal were combining to force a permanent snarl on my face and more ferocity in all my direction.

This session of previews had, quite frankly, been freakish. The whole point of weeks of previews was to work out the technical kinks to a show. _Bombshell _did not have terribly elaborate constructs or contraptions. Our set was fairly minimalistic. We had no crazy turntable like _Les Miserables_, nor was I hanging my actors from the ceiling like _Spiderman. _Nonetheless, the technical aspects of the show needed as much blocking, and the stage hands as much practice, as the ensemble, especially since the book was finished only moments before we went into our performance last night. Recasting a lead is not par for course during previews, nor is adding songs and dialogue, but we managed to do all three in under a week.

We ran through the entirety of the play twice before I cut my tired cast and crew loose. Karen must've vaporized as soon as I gave the word because when I looked up, she was nowhere to be found. Part of me was relieved by her miraculous disappearance. Aside from a general feeling that I should say _something_ to her, I hadn't the slightest clue what that something should be. She'd asked for time but that didn't mean I couldn't talk to her, right? I'd have to catch up with her at the hotel. She would have all the time she could want between then and now.

I was packing my notes into a tote when I felt someone tap me on the back. I turned, half expecting to see Karen's cute chin jutted out with hurt dripping from her eyes, but instead came face to face with the less attractive jowls of Eileen. Her eyes were oozing an exhilarated excitement that likely did not bode well for me.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Eileen started.

Per usual, I hadn't the slightest idea what Eileen was nattering on about. "Pardon?"

"You gave me a hit!" She laughed. "Now, I'm being a good girl and telling you 'thank you' just as directed."

I vaguely recalled telling her to bugger off last night. I supposed this was her attempt to renew a more comfortable relationship with her director. I really wasn't interested in pandering to Eileen, however. I shrugged and mumbled a brief, "You're welcome."

Eileen did not take the hint and continued in a voice pitched lower, as if we were conspiring. "I really should be thanking you for _more_ than the hit. I had no idea that Ivy Lynn was so unstable. I'm glad you went in the direction you did. It seems an altogether better choice in light of current circumstances."

_In light of current circumstances_? Really? Could she be so daft? Ivy's "instability" was undoubtedly exacerbated by her brief hope that she would play Marilyn last night, a hope that Eileen, Tom and Julia unfairly fostered in her. I wanted to say as much but figured she'd get defensive and tell me I was projecting my guilt on other parties less culpable to Ivy's downfall. Sadly, that statement was probably far too near the truth for me, and I certainly didn't want to pin down the parameters of it with Eileen tonight.

I always assumed that Ivy's affinity for me was strictly _professional_. Granted, our behavior together was far from professional... or at least any legal profession. Still, was it foolish of me to think Ivy's interest in me had been for something more than just Marilyn? She slept with me to get the lead, and she got it for the workshop. She was more experienced than Karen, better able to handle the flux of the workshop at the time, and she was a very good lay. I slept with Ivy because, well, because I could. Her clinginess, despite its delicious name-based irony, bothered me, and Rebecca had very helpfully rid me of any trappings of a relationship with Ivy. This is all very Broadway. It was a neat, clean and simple affair, but, now, I had a niggling feeling that maybe Ivy had invested something more into our association than I had.

I hate feeling guilty.

My mood and black humor were sending Eileen the wrong message, because she patted my shoulder again. "I'm sorry Derek. I know you were close to her." She knew no such thing, but since ignorance never stopped Eileen from talking before, it was meaningless to hope for such a miracle now. She continued, "I have a couple of things I need to talk to Tom about and was just heading over to Mass. General now. Why don't you come with?"

I was tired and in a foul mood. I very much wanted to turn Eileen down but, truly, I needed to go to Mass. General and check in. Sam let me know during a break that Ivy had finally come to, and I had so many _words_ to say to her. Eileen was offering a free ride. I just hoped the next few hours of business counted toward all the _time_ that Karen needed to think.

I didn't bother offering gratitude but followed Eileen out to where her car and driver were idling in front of the theater. She kept a running commentary on her life, Jerry's awfulness, and her delight with the recent reviews of _Bombshell_, evidently content to keep this stream of words a monologue since I offered no more than an occasional nod or grunt in reply.

Nonetheless, I was very happy to reach the hospital. The brief silence I enjoyed as I walked around the car to open Eileen's door was like that triumphant moment just after you kill a fly which has been humming and buzzing by your ear all evening.

Ivy looked better than I expected. She had color in her cheeks again and was animatedly talking with Tom when I came into the room. Unfortunately, my presence killed her animation and blanched the roses from her cheeks. That gnawing guilt blossomed inside of me as Eileen butchered tact and offered a back-handed get well soon to Ivy, complete with unimaginative flowers and a teddy bear.

I was thankful that, after finishing saying her few words to Ivy, Eileen managed to drag Tom out of the room. Tom slobbering and glowering at me like a twice beheaded Cerberus was not going to help this conversation one bit and I had very low hopes of it going in the right direction to begin with.

I walked over to the bed and kissed Ivy's offered cheek. "Hello darling."

"Hello Derek," Ivy replied. She at least looked slightly embarrassed by her current circumstance. She was desperately trying not to give me eye contact and when she did, it was from a half-coy side glance through her lashes. "Are you recasting my part?"

Ah! This was why I'd always thought Ivy had been in sync with me about our relationship. She was always so business-oriented, which was delightfully refreshing while it had lasted. I got to have no-strings attached sex with a lovely specimen of feminine beauty, and she got all the perks that came with banging the director. Win-win.

But, somehow, it had turned into a lose-lose situation. "That entirely depends on you." I replied curtly.

"Oh." She looked at me full on for the first time. A detached part of me recognized how beautiful she was. For once her blond hair was unstyled and lay in curls across her pillow. Her lips, free of their normal siren red varnish, were a lovely, girlish pink. Even as I registered her attributes in a manner I never truly appreciated before, I found that the only accompanying feeling I could dredge up for Ivy was stark disappointment.

While I assumed she was a hard-edged professional diva, I held great reserves of respect for her. She had a no-nonsense way to her quest for fame that I felt was similar to my own. Ivy didn't play by the rules, took no prisoners, and was vibrantly vicious about getting what she wanted when she needed to be. These things I could admire.

I thought her fall from grace in _Heaven on Earth_ was a one-time terrible misjudgment. Apparently, I was wrong. She must have taken a liking to the whirl and smash of a chemical high. Jeopardizing her career in _Heaven on Earth_ was a poor choice, to be sure, but it wasn't _my_ show. I couldn't blame her for wanting to jump off the highest thing she could find after months stuck playing a feathered trollop. (_Heaven on Earth_ was a perfect example of Tom's most frivolous, ridiculous song writing. I saw the show once and had a desperate urge to fling myself off some tall construct just to end the inane cache of hooks and awful bridges that were then stuck in my head.) I had been generous and ignored her previous mistakes. This was, of course, something few directors would've done. But then, Ivy threw it all away. Overdosing in a burst of petulance for having the second best female role in _my_ play? I couldn't believe her audacity.

Ivy Lynn, of course, was very good at this hurt-and-wounded-soul-act she'd pulled on like a costume since I'd arrived. With tears just glistening in her eyes, Ivy let her hand quiver as she moved it to grip my own. Her grasp was firm, if clammy, and I knew from that she was recovering much faster than she wanted me to see.

"I'm so glad you came for me." She played that line like she played Marilyn, with no movement in her upper lip. I squeezed her hand enough to loosen her hold and then removed mine from her reach.

"Why'd you do it, Ivy?"

Her eyes widened in a parody of innocence that I didn't buy. Actually, I don't know anyone who would have bought the look since it flashed with a dark menace that gave lie to the expression. She was losing her composure because her next words came out with a harsh shrillness: "Have you ever had the only thing you ever wanted handed to you—and, moments later, ripped away?"

Oops. That was careless of me. I didn't want to talk about her overdose. I was pretty sure I could pin down the ins and outs of that without help. I understood the move regardless of how little I agreed with or liked her methods. I shook my head quickly. "No, no. Not that." She looked genuinely confused and I fell back on my own nervous tick and ran my hand through my hair leaving in more spiked and disheveled than ever. Did she really think I wouldn't find out? We had both, clearly, underestimated each other. "Why'd you sleep with Dev? And, worse, tell Karen right before she was going to go on last night? Did you really think you could break her so you could sweep in and pick up the role?"

Her look of astonishment was such a caricature it was almost comical. A disconsolate edge bled into her tone: "Why do you always only care about Karen fucking Cartwright? Why does everyone think that she shits gold? Karen. Karen. Karen. God! Can you think of anyone else?"

Honesty and the word "no" buzzed on the tip of my tongue, but I bit it down and refused to let it out. Ivy'd had enough of my honesty to last a lifetime. She glowered at my grimace, and then her facial expression shifted from anger to desperation. It was not a becoming look for Ivy. "I can't lose this job, Derek. Please. If you ever felt anything for me..."

I despise such pleas and normally, it wouldn't work. But Ivy knew as well as I did that recasting while on the road was a terribly inconvenient prospect. I'd already lost the most talented member of my ensemble to the lead position and recasting another female role, especially such a senior member of the ensemble, was going to be difficult. "Our next show is Friday. If you get clearance from your doctors to be in it, you will keep your part."

Maybe my nicknames are accurate because I had a rather evil desire to kill the gorgeous glow that suffused her face when she broke into a smile. She thought she had one up on me. I wasn't going to let her carry that misconception though. "I'm going to make this very clear for you, Ivy," I continued. "This isn't me offering you some favor. This is purely for the sake of the show. If you're there by Friday, you keep your position, but there are conditions." The glow of delight was vanquished that easily. Evil Dark Lord 1. Ivy 0. I held up my fingers as I counted: "One. You will seek counseling with a professional psychologist for this drug thing." I'm sure Ivy's exhilaration was extinct now. Her lips twisted as if she smelled something foul. "Two. You'll cease all back-handed attacks on my lead. If Ms. Cartwright fails to fulfill her role as Marilyn, I can guarantee the position will _not_ be falling to you. I'm sick of these petty inter-cast vendettas." Ah, and now she was offering me a fierce scowl. Fine. I wasn't done yet. "And three. You will recognize right now, with a handshake, that any relationship we had beyond the strictly professional is well and truly over." I thrust my right hand out and she looked like she was ready to spit on it.

"I will accept all your conditions, Derek," Ivy hissed. "But you must acknowledge that our relationship is over only because you are an asshole and a bastard. You used me, and now I am fully aware that you're just a despicable rat." She paused for half a millisecond to rake her gaze up and down my body. "And, though I only had a small taste, Dev is much better at _everything_. If you finally manage to actually get Karen to sleep with you, she'll walk away disappointed."

Well, what more could I say? "Agreed," I stated as I took her hand and shook it, one pump up and down. "Get well soon. I hope to see you Friday." With that, I turned and left.

* * *

A soft mist made the outdoors a cold and damp prospect. Despite a visible lack of rainfall, gray clouds, pregnant with winter's cold, threatened to make walking a completely miserable choice at any minute. Eileen offered to have her driver take me back to the hotel before she went onward to whatever family friend she was staying with, but I didn't feel like chatting with her about the show, her frustrations with Jerry, or the myriad complaints that Eileen seemed to be able to ramble on about ad nauseum, so I declined the offer.

The taxi I called was zipping along Tremont Street near the Commons when I saw her. Karen. She was walking through the drizzling mist with nothing more than a light windbreaker for warmth. The so-called jacket did not seem to be holding up to its name, for Karen was hunched into herself. The wind did marvelous things to her damp hair, flipping it in stripes across her face and then back and up, giving it a lifelike quality. She was a modern-day Daphne racing away from the world of man. I shouted for the cabbie to stop. He did so with a great reluctance. The twenty I threw his way more than compensated for the ride. I didn't have to endure his disgruntled diatribe long, for as soon as he pulled over I was out of the cab and chasing after my star in the chill twilight.

When I find my actors or actresses doing something utterly stupid, it is fully within my rights to correct them. I'm well versed at playing a sarcastic, snappy and, yes, nagging disciplinarian. I had nearly caught up to Karen at the domed bandstand and knew my standard approach was not going to work tonight. She had been bullied and cajoled far too much today to accept any more harassment from me.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm rusty at playing the part of a friend, but since I had unintentionally stripped her of all others, I climbed the steps to the shelter of the bandstand, took a deep breath, and decided to try in earnest. I couldn't shirk the nagging aspect of my directorial personality entirely however. As I approached, I shrugged out of my long over coat, draped it over her shoulders, and offered my first words of comfort. Sort of. "You're going to catch cold like that." Okay. Maybe not so comforting but it's the thought that counts, right?

Karen stared out at the darkening mist creeping across the Common. She must have seen me approach for she didn't startle or turn toward me. Instead, she snorted, "You sound like my mother. That's an old wife's tale, you know. You can't actually get sick from being out in the cold."

"An old wife and your mother. You do know how to build a man up."

This time, I earned a choked laugh. It warmed me, and I was grateful because very little else did at this moment. I had only a long sleeve cotton shirt under my coat and the chill was decidedly unpleasant. I'm pretty sure this was why I never tried too hard to be friendly. Friendship, clearly, meant greater possibilities of hypothermia and weather-induced death. "I'll walk you back to the hotel," I selflessly offered. That five block walk would probably be my end.

"How generous!" Karen cried out, not at all sounding as if she understood my sacrifice. She turned towards me finally. Our height differential caused the hem of the jacket to scrape along the ground. "There's nothing more that I'd like to do than go back to that hotel full of hostile stares and cold shoulders." Although I had just managed to get my coat on her, she pulled it off and handed it back to me. "I'll stay here for a bit if you don't mind."

I sniffed. "You should leave sarcasm to those of us who have dedicated our lives to the art. It doesn't suit you. And, please, keep the coat. If I lose my voice, everyone is delighted. If you lose your voice, we don't have a show. Maybe you can win friends back this way...by causing the death of the Dark Lord."

She gave me an odd look but continued to hold out my coat. "Derek, I can see you shivering. And, truly, I'm fine."

She said that an awful lot when it wasn't true. _I'm fine_. I wasn't sure if it was some ingrained Midwestern habit never to speak negatively about your general well-being or if she simply didn't understand the meaning of those words.

"A compromise then?" I offered, taking the coat and throwing it on. I took the few steps forward and caught Karen by her waist, turning her so she faced her view of the Commons again. Then I tucked her into me and pulled the coat around us both. She was a good half-foot shorter than me, and with very little effort I could rest my chin atop her head. This I did and, after a minute Karen relaxed against me.

"I'm sorry." I offered knowing it wasn't the apology she needed but feeling obligated to offer it anyway. "They can't be as dickish to me without fear of losing their job."

I felt her shrug rather than saw it. "It wasn't so bad," she offered. "Thank you for telling me in advance what I'd be walking into."

I couldn't bring myself to say "You're welcome" because I hadn't actually done anything deserving thanks.

The silence loomed between us. Karen seemed comfortable with it, lost in her thoughts of another time or place, but I was not. My mind was in over-drive and it flapped and pestered, '_What would a friend do? What would a friend do?' _I was failing to live up to _my_ mind's expectation of friendship and certainly had to be miserably trampling Karen's.

I had no small talk to offer, nothing to break this lingering silence. I could ask about her day but had been there with her for most of it. I couldn't very well say "How was rehearsal today, Karen? Did you enjoy being shunned by the ensemble cast? No? Oh, tell me more. And, by the by, why are you wandering around Boston in the freezing rain all alone?" And there was my afternoon I couldn't talk about: "You know Ivy, your arch rival who just broke up your relationship with a live-in boyfriend of many years, the same girl that I have a well known but murky sexual history with? While you were being harassed by your fair weather friends, I was promising Ivy her job if she could just get on her feet to sing." Nope, I didn't want to break open that conversation either. And so the silence grew as the light faded from the park. We just stood stealing warmth from each other as the rain stopped and started and stopped again.

I was so grateful when Karen turned to me. Since we were standing so close, she had to strain her neck to look up. The position couldn't be comfortable, but neither of us moved the step back to correct it. "I'm sorry, Derek." That wasn't the opening line I'd been hoping for, but I did my best to remain stoic until I knew where she was going with this. She looked at me, assessing, her eyes were brimming with emotion. For the first time, I couldn't distinguish a single one. "I just don't know if I can do this." This? What's this? Standing in the rain? I wasn't keen on that either. "I am mad at her. At Ivy. And Dev. God! I could just kill him. But, sleeping with you would be just as petty and mean-spirited as they are. I'd really rather not stoop to their level."

Briefly, Ivy's voice echoed through my mind. _Have you ever had the only thing you ever wanted handed to you—and, moments later, ripped away? _ I felt like I was cracking on the inside. I wanted to tell her it was neither petty nor mean-spirited. I wanted to make her see that this, _us, _could be a lovely interlude. It could be so much more than just revenge. But I didn't think I had the words or the personality to pull off redefining _us._

She sucked in another quick breath, "You must think I'm a terrible tease." A tease? Yes. Terrible? No. She paused glancing again at my face. I hoped it didn't betray what I was thinking. It seemed Karen was finally uncomfortable with the silences in between our words, for she kept talking. She gave a quick laugh, a noble but misguided try for humor: "I wouldn't want you to miss out on finding the girl of your dreams just 'cause you're helping me be vindictive."

That was it, though. Karen _was_ the girl in my dreams. All of them. And she had been every night and several times a day since she first walked into my life. Yet another thing I could add to my ever-growing list of things I couldn't say to Karen. "Please don't think of my welfare in this," I managed. Enough bitterness must've crept into my voice because Karen's eyes narrowed as she tried to parse the meaning behind that statement. I reached out to her and cupped her face in my hand. My words had never been good at getting the point across to her. I needed more than words.

She really was so small. My hand spanned from her jaw up into her hairline. Though my hand was cold, she leaned into it and closed her eyes. "Look, Karen, I know you're confused right now. And you have a lot to deal with. Distracting you from _Bombshell_ is the last thing I would want to do. I just..." I paused trying to think of what to say and her eyes fluttered open.

She couldn't begrudge me a last kiss. With the soft _shurring_ of the cold, gray rain on the roof of the bandstand and only the darkening fog sweeping around the Commons as our audience, I slid my hand around her neck and pulled her to me. To this point, the handful of kisses we shared was hot and frenetic. This one was different. I forced myself to be gentle. This kiss was slow, warm, and it lingered on and on. Karen had been crying today. The first thing I could taste on her was the salt of her tears. I wanted to lick them away, every last salty drop. Instead, I rested my forehead on hers and closed my eyes. What had I been saying? Oh... "I just want you to know that I'm here. If you need anything. At all."

Her breathing was rapid, and we were close enough that each breath caused her breasts to brush against me. I was pleased to see this sensation was as distracting to her as it was to me. She took a small step back so she could look at me. I mourned the loss of contact with her breasts. "Are you saying that in your capacity as director, Derek?"

That was a marvelous question. Was I? I remembered how I had definitively ended my association with Ivy. _Rebecca needs my attention, and I'm giving it to her. Is there any other way?_ Was Karen just the next lead getting the all of my directorial attention? It didn't feel like that. "No. I'm offering that as a..." The word _friend_ stuck in my throat so I tried a different route. "I'm offering that with no time limits, no dependence on your position in the show. Just if you need anything, I'm here. Okay?" I would have quickly regretted an offer like that to any other girl but felt strangely comfortable offering Karen carte blanche.

We waited until the rain slowed and walked back to the hotel. Under great duress, I finally got Karen to agree to wear my coat for the five-block dash in the drizzle. Sue waited in the lobby and though she'd been one of the few members that hadn't spurned Karen today, the rosy-cheeked, out-of-breath woman dressed in my coat who dashed out of the rain couldn't have painted an innocent picture.

Sue glowered at me and then turned to Karen. "Iowa, we need to talk. Preferably now."

I was reluctant to release Karen to whatever unknown torment my ensemble had constructed, but it wasn't my choice. Karen pulled off my coat and handed it back to me with a smile. "Thanks Derek. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, my dismissal was swift and merciful.

Life is long. Theater is longer. If I played the cards right, Karen would be working with me in _Bombshell _for some time yet. I needed to bide my time. I needed a game change.

The coat still smelled of Karen, and so I shrugged it back on and decided a walk in the rain wasn't so bad after all. With a last fleeting glance at the duo disappearing down the corridor to the elevator, I turned and walked back out into the chill Boston night.

* * *

A/N: I have some glorious news! The wonderful West Coast Tasha has offered (and most definitely been accepted) to be my beta. You may have noticed that Chapter 5 got a bit of a clean up mid-this-week. (What you mean a '.' doesn't come after a '?' ?) So cleaner transitions, Oxford commas, and better sense of tense are all entirely because T's been my extra eyes on the draft. Naturally, all grammar mistakes and otherwise are still ultimately my fault 'cause I don't always listen. :) T's goals are to make me drag this story out until Season 2 of Smash. I am not sure that's going to happen but you have someone else on your side if you're looking for cheap Smash entertainment til the end of the hiatus. So, give a little cheer to West Coast Tasha! She deserves it!


	7. Remember When

"Derek, can you help me get this?" Still in her full Marilyn costume, Karen looked over her shoulder at me before gesturing helplessly to the zip on the back of the gold sequined gown.

A quick glance around assured me that no one else was nearby; the backstage area was deserted and even the rows of dressing rooms were unusually quiet. After only the slightest hesitation, I stepped forward. The click of the zipper and my overly harsh breathing were the only noises I heard. As the slider reached its end, the dress opened. Like the leaves on a flower releasing a new bloom, the garment fell away until Karen stood before me in nothing but heels, a slip and a brassiere. I'd seen her dressed in as little before but previous exposure to the sight didn't stop me from going instantly hard. I was amazed my trousers withstood the strain.

No doubt, my erection was obvious to Karen. I was on the verge of turning away when a wicked gleam came into her eyes and those ruby red lips turned up at the corners. The look she sent me, while scalding, froze me in place. Her hand, firm and hot, came to rest on my chest. I wondered if she could feel how fast my heart was pumping. She didn't give any sign of it as she simply looked up at me.

Marilyn had blue eyes, so Karen's rich, warm brown orbs were the only tell I had to differentiate between the legend and my star. And then she leaned forward and kissed me. My heart nearly stopped. Her kiss was tentative at first, a press of her lips to my own, and then I felt her tongue lick a line across my lips. Greedily, I opened my mouth to her tongue's exploration. She pressed into me and slid her hand down, down, down until it rested on my jutting member. "Can you help me get _this_?" she asked again and squeezed.

My eyes closed in glorious anticipation... and then opened…

And were met with the disappointing gray view of the ceiling in my hotel room. Yet again, I found myself dealing with a Karen-induced erection and no Karen to remedy the situation. Despite being told in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't see her until rehearsal the next day, I couldn't help running through possibilities that would bring a lie to those words and Karen to my room.

My first thought was that Sue, a willing emissary from the disgruntled ensemble, would tear into Karen about "sleeping" with me. Overly tender-hearted Karen would be distraught over the loss of yet another friend. Undoubtedly, she'd find asylum at the hotel bar and then, two or three drinks later, she'd stumble to my room seeking nothing more than the cold comfort of actually committing the sin responsible for her losses.

Or perhaps Karen would return to her hotel room after a congenial chat with Sue, only to find the sparseness of the once shared space to be overwhelmingly depressing. Perhaps she would try to spread out her own clothing in the closet and across the bed to make up for Dev's absence, only to find a tie she'd given him on their first anniversary discarded like rubbish under the bed. A renewed anger would bring her down to my room...

Actually, all the scenarios I dreamt up which sounded even remotely feasible had Karen drunk and/or upset. Was I really the base sort of person to wish repeatedly that she was one, the other, or both? I wanted to scoff and say I wasn't that person at all. Nope! Derek Wills only wished happiness and joy on his current leading lady. Fluffy bunnies. _Rainbows_ _and cupcakes_. Ugh! In all honesty, if the only way I could get Karen was depressed and drunk, I was hard pressed not to hope some aspect of the universe would provide just enough pain and heartbreak to drive her into my hotel room and arms.

Karen drunk, depressed, or perfectly normal, did not come to my hotel room Monday night. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. We finished nearly a week of rehearsals during which I acted as nothing more than her somewhat tyrannical director and she as nothing more than my budding starlet.

Ivy predicted I'd never be happy and, if my happiness lay with one Karen Cartwright, I began to suspect Ivy's prediction might prove spot on. Clearly, I was playing my cards all wrong in this game and needed to change strategy soon to have any chance with Karen. My greatest problem was I could never actually guess what she would do because her responses were so far outside of my realm of experience.

Though I was miffed at her general absence from the rest of my life, I grudgingly admired how Karen slowly worked members of the ensemble back into her camp of allies. She must have told Sue the truth in that secretive "Iowa, I must speak with you now" chat. If Sue ever left Broadway, she would surely be hired by the best PR firm in the nation. By Tuesday's rehearsal, nearly a quarter of the cast had reverted to normal interactions with Karen, and by Thursday's rehearsal, the line in the sand between Ivy's camp and Karen's was so distinct that the campaigns for the 2012 presidential elections looked congenial in comparison.

The delicious irony was that had Ivy come back to rehearsals on Monday, she'd have been lauded as the tragic heroine. She'd have basked in the sympathy, empathy, and support of the entire cast and crew. Still locked up in her ivory tower at Mass. General, I imagined she fully expected that sort of homecoming. Contrary to anyone's expectation, her extended stay in hospital actually worked against her receiving wellsprings of sympathy.

I merely shrugged when Tom, prickly as a cactus, assured that Ivy'd be at Friday's rehearsals. No doubt she'd be livid upon her return by the ensemble's general attitude, but at this point Ivy didn't matter. Jessica was prepped to do Ivy's songs, and though not ideal, _Bombshell_ would be a go on Friday evening with or without Ms. Lynn.

The weirdest part in the whole swing from Ivy to Karen was that some of the cast started to behave as if _I_ had a beatific quality or two. Karen and Sue apparently whitewashed my image from most vile and evil Dark Lord to surly but benevolent director. I wasn't sure what to think about the general goodwill I received on account of this but did little beyond watching in utter bemusement.

Utter bemusement also described how I greeted the request from Bobby, of all people, to go out with a group of the loyal-to-Karen cast on Thursday evening. In truth, I didn't feel Bobby swung from Ivy's side to Karen's so much as he positioned himself closest to the juiciest possibilities for gossip. He played both sides so very well that, no matter who would reign supreme in this diva death match, inevitably he would land on his feet right next to the designated lead.

Normally, I frown on outings the night before a performance. Thursday nights were for reflection on the show and last minute practice; drinking alcohol at the local watering hole, as a general rule, didn't count as practice. Still, it had been a long week of endless repetition in rehearsal, and if a handful of Karen's camp decided to go out and have a drink or two before all hell broke loose during the inevitable return of Ivy on Friday, who was I to naysay it?

Especially if they managed to get Karen drunk.

We ended up at the Sweetwater Tavern, a quaint little pub down a cobblestone alley just off the Public Gardens. I largely suspected the choice of venue was actually a brash club across the way called The Estate but, as it was only 8 o'clock, we holed up in the Tavern for a drink or two.

We were a group of ten, and I should've known better than to slide into a booth. I was instantly trapped into my spot by a junior chorus member who was all legs and no brains. I think her name was Chelsea or Charlotte or something. I vaguely remembered her audition, but aside from showing up and doing her job with a degree of accuracy requiring rare redirection, Charlotte/Chelsea never managed to be memorable.

She was, however, a perfect human shield. Slightly overawed by my presence, she offered only a brief discussion about how, like, nice the reviews for Karen's performance had been and how, ah, wretched the weather was. After those two failed attempts at communication, she barely looked my way and almost desperately jumped into any other conversational opportunity. At first, the conversations being played out by Chelsea/Charlotte pulled my attention, but after a brief span of time, the ums and ahs and likes became nothing more than a cascade of white noise washing over me. They might have locked into some sort of coherent speech had I invested any effort into paying attention, but I didn't. Rather, I focused on the only reason I tortured myself with this outing: Karen.

My original supposition about the amount of ground gained by my star was only partly correct. Aside from Sue and the rather questionable support of Bobby, Karen's "friends" seemed to be the younger, greener members of the chorus and a handful of the stage crew. She was, without a doubt, trying too damn hard. It was as if she took the first ten adjectives she associated with being a newly minted star of the stage and tried to embody each and every one, simultaneously. I wanted to grip her shoulders and given her a good, hard shake, but I was trapped behind Charlotte/Chelsea and her sticky ums and ahs.

Almost everyone did this very thing when first thrust into the limelight, which explained why outsiders observing the theatrical world almost always failed to see beyond our stereotypes and clichés. Some spent entire careers playing a stereotype. And while that was all well and good for them, no two Broadway stars are truly alike.

The essence which made Karen a rising star was at odds with the qualities she thought a rising star should possess. She wanted to come across as sophisticated and glamorous but couldn't quite shake the _Iowa_. She wanted to appear witty but was too kind to inject the required edge into her words. Most of all, she wanted to be happy but her smile, her laugh, even her dimple, only highlighted just how miserable she truly was.

At 10 o'clock The Estate opened its doors and everyone began making their way toward the potential higher level of entertainment, if bumping and grinding against underage college kids with fake IDs truly ascended past the level of entertainment provided by having a couple of drinks at a local tavern. I forced myself not to act the grumpy director, plastered an odd hybrid between a smile and a grimace on my face, and waved as the company left in small clusters. I did not remind them about tomorrow's rehearsal time or threaten dire consequences if they weren't able to meet my performance expectations. In very little time, my human shield was, uh, gone. I watched as Sue, the last member of the company still standing with Karen, gave her a side hug. She whispered something that earned a soft smile from Karen and headed out the door.

Karen made her way to my booth and slid into the seat across from me.

"Alright, Derek, I need you." Such sweet words; I'd been waiting to hear them from her cherry red lips for months. Given that we were so recently left on our own, a small hope rose in me that she meant what she said... she _needed_ me. I calculated exactly how long it would take us to get from the Tavern back to the hotel.

And then she handed me her phone.

I was confused until I processed what I saw. The bastard was actually quite clever. He'd sent her an email—one email—every hour since his return to NYC. The subject line was always the same_: I am so sorry_. For the body, he always started: _Karen, don't give up on us. _And then there was the gem: _Remember when_...

It was a memory-an-hour catalog of the highlights of their relationship: trips, sweet moments, and inside jokes. He'd just sent his 88th email in as many hours. As a constant, emotional barrage, it was very clever indeed and, more's the pity, every bit as effective. Karen was having difficulty holding out.

She _needed _me. Her big brown eyes looked right into mine, and I could see her desperation. "I know you have something horrifying to say about that," she said. "Make me see how foolish it is, Derek. You're the only one I know who isn't cooing over his _thoughtfulness_."

Well, it wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for, but beggars can't be choosers. She needed a laugh and, if ours was a just universe, I surely possessed vast reserves of hilarity stored inside of me since I so rarely called upon levity in my daily life. I offered her a cheeky half smile. "Ah, and since I'm a man without decency, you wanted to see if I could drag dear ol' Dev through the muck for you?" I sniffed. "You do realize I've met him all of three times, and during the course of the most memorable occasion he punched me in the face?"

She quirked her brow and the corner of her frown curled up causing her lips to run as an intriguing diagonal slash across her face. "All the more reason you should be able to throw me a few barbs." She lifted her beer to take a healthy gulp.

It took all of a nanosecond and no conscious thought whatsoever for the first insult to form in my mind. "I'm just astonished that out of hundreds of millions of sperm he was the fastest. I bet he won by a nose."

It wasn't _that_ funny but it caught Karen off guard. She choked on the beer from which she'd just taken a generous pull. Coughing and spluttering, she sprayed a fine mist over most of the table and, in part, on me. Wiping off her ill timed drink, I offered another quip. "Hey Karen, remember when I made a joke about your ex's father's ejaculate and you spit your drink on me?"

That one sent both of us into paroxysms of laughter. The handful of other customers in the bar turned toward the noise and offered a frown of disapproval, obviously assuming we were engaged in mindless, drunken revelry. Sadly, neither Karen nor I were actually drunk, just slightly manic in response to being cast in roles we weren't use to maintaining and trapped by expectations we couldn't ignore.

"Honestly, darling, why do you let him get to you? Did you really see a 'happily ever after' with him? He's too controlling by half."

She scoffed. "_He's_ too controlling? Really, Derek, that's rich coming from you."

I sighed because, as usual, she missed the point. "That's not what I mean. Give it a week, two at most. You'll see. From this point onward, you're going to lose a lot, if not all, control over your personal life."

She brandished the phone at me and hissed, "I already have!"

"No," I emphatically replied. "You've lost a boyfriend. But from this point forward, your existence will be chronicled, gossiped about, and dissected in reports printed for the mindless masses. Karen, you won't be able to buy a late night snack without someone wondering if you're ingesting additional calories because you're pregnant or depressed. Or, better still, because you have an eating disorder and plan to vomit it all up later. You're going to be _famous_, and a distinct lack of privacy comes with all the perks. You can't get to the top without sacrifice." Oh dear. I wasn't wont to choose quite that degree of preachy. Given my lack of finesse, I reconsidered my sobriety.

Karen frowned at me. That was a tough bit to follow, and I wondered with what sort of argument she'd swing back. I didn't have to wait long. "And what have you sacrificed, Derek?"

Some people say that we only have a choice between telling the truth and telling a lie. The articles of that concept are all wrong. _The_ Truth or _a_ lie? It should be _a_ truth or _the_ lie. There's only one way to tell a lie; there's a thousand ways to tell the truth: there are half truths, stretched truths, and grains of truth, to name just a few.

I wasn't ready to delve into universal truths with Karen. I wasn't ready to crack open my personal history and dissect my past mistakes. But I couldn't tell _the_ lie. I sighed and took a long, healthy slug of my drink. The beer was room temperature at this point and tasted absolutely vile, so _a_ bitter truth it would be. "You've been to my apartment, Karen. What did you see?"

She was ready for me to pawn off _the_ lie as well. I stunned her, and the depths in those dark eyes lost focus as she tried to recall what she should've seen. I let her think for a moment and then jumped in to help. "I've dedicated my life to my career. It is my passion, my obsession. You know what I've sacrificed."

She nodded accepting my assessment. "It was so empty."

I continued, "It _is_ so empty because I don't have time for a fully committed relationship and the work I do."

One of the most masochistic things I like about Karen is she has no qualms calling me out if she disagrees. "You don't have time, or you won't make time?"

"Does it really matter?" I shot back.

She didn't respond immediately but just gazed at me. Her look shrank the room until it was comprised solely of the two of us. When she spoke, it was in her most dulcet tone, and I realized the room had not shrunk enough for me to hear her clearly. I leaned forward. "Yes. I think you use your career as an excuse for sabotaging your relationships."

I quirked my brow up at that assessment. "You do, do you? You've got that much from what, watching me have two flings in the last few months?" She clearly did not want to concede my point and grimaced as she nodded. "Let me show you how this works. Give me one night, and you'll see what I mean."

Karen's mind went straight to thoughts of a tangled press of naked limbs, sinuous kisses, and the weight of my body on hers. A delicious blush stole up her face as she started to splutter a response.

I cut in, "Sunday evening, after the performance, Eileen wants me to go out with some potential donors. Come with me and watch how it works. You'll see what I mean."

Karen's blush deepened as she realized her misinterpretation of my words. She tried to cover her embarrassment with that quaint Iowan bravado. "As a date?" she asked, her brow quirk mirroring my own from a moment ago.

"If you'd rather, I can keep it strictly professional." I chose not to interpret her quick nod as an assent. We could hash that out later. Instead, we pulled the conversation away from the gloomy truths and sacrifices surrounding fame and returned to a much lighter litany of Dev-based slurs.

It was just after midnight when I escorted Karen back to the hotel and stood by helplessly, willing her to look back at me as she stepped out of the elevator and onto her floor. When the doors slid closed without the meager sustenance of a backward glance, I cursed myself for a fool. It wasn't until the elevator doors opened on my own floor that I realized while it was certainly ignoble, it wasn't entirely foolish to want Karen to suffer some of the same longing I did. She already haunted my unconscious thoughts. Was it really so wrong to hope I haunted some of hers?

I made my way to my room decidedly more grumpy than usual. The worst part of the evening was despite all the derision I pumped into my general account of Dev, I couldn't beat his list of good times with Karen. What could I offer her that he had not? _Remember when I inappropriately propositioned you the first time we were in a room alone together? Remember when I made your daily existence so much more trying by playing up the competition between you and my current fling? Remember when I tried to apologize to you and got socked in the face by your arse-wipe of a boyfriend? Remember when I told you to get use to being unhappy because it was the price for fame?_

I did have too many drinks tonight because the base part of me hoped Karen would botch her upcoming performances and never have to make anymore sacrifice for her art. She could retire one show into fame and fortune and seek that sweet, gooey happiness that was the only fitting end for a girl like her. I shed my shoes, pants and shirt and hoped that tomorrow I'd wake up feeling more myself.

I fell asleep remembering when Karen had told me she wasn't saying "no".

* * *

A/N: I hope all my reviewers find their sweet, gooey happiness. Thank you for your support and encouragement. I appreciate each and every review and they certainly inspire me to keep writing.

There really are no words great enough to thank the most illustrious WestCoastTasha. She beta'd this chapter and, believe me, she's a master of editing. Professional-grade quality for sure! After taking a blender to my draft and disabusing me of silly wording, she's left you all with a much better chapter all around. So, again, if you ever get a chance - send love and thanks to WestCoastTasha for all her magnificent edits!

A/N2: And, I haven't the slightest idea why I posted this but it never actually became available...hopefully, this second attempt will work. :-/


	8. Of Sharks and Women

It had become a habit of mine to shoo away the wardrobe assistant and stagehands and zip Karen into her final costume. Perhaps it was part of my ever present desire to see if dreams could become reality, but in that brief span of time I didn't need dreams. I gloried in our all too real closeness and intimacy. For those few seconds we dropped all roles, all expectations. I held her in my arms and whispered in her ear with no cares in the world. Tonight, as I had the past two nights, I wrapped my hand around her waist and pulled her to me. A smile tugged at my lips as I breathed, "You haven't forgotten our date, have you, darling?" causing strands of the blond wig to curl and dance away.

As usual, she was so focused on her final song that she didn't even bother to swat me away. Another reason, I'm sure, that I made certain to be in the wings every evening. This moment, like all others, demanded small sacrifices. Her gown was uncomfortably sharp. Too many sequins and jewels made cuddling up to it akin to cuddling up to a bulletproof vest liberally peppered with shrapnel. Karen, on the other hand, was all soft curves and smooth skin. I ran my hand down her arm, which jolted her out of her focus. She managed a quarter turn and offered a slight frown. "Shouldn't you be sharing your infinite wisdom on how I should finish this show?"

In all actuality, no direction needed to be given for Karen performed flawlessly on Friday and Saturday night. I was certain that in less than five minutes, the house would rise to its feet for a seemingly endless and well deserved standing ovation. The rest of the cast would gambol out on stage, grinning and bowing for the audience. Even the committed core of Ivy's most vehement supporters, Ivy among them, would simper and glow for the duration of the applause before jaunting off to their respective dressing rooms to dissect the ups and downs of Karen's performance and reassess their timeline for her fall from grace.

I was both astonished and a little suspicious that Ivy and Karen had yet to talk or, in fact, interact in any fashion. With the lone exception of Bobby the turncoat, their respective supporters didn't bother to mingle much either. Maybe Ivy took my warning to heart, or maybe a full scale war was in the offing. That thought never failed to give me a headache, and mostly I just wished they could hold together for four more weeks.

"I'm saving my 'infinite wisdom' for later tonight when you'll want it," I said, somewhat distracted from our repartee. I knew Karen wasn't comfortable with this level of innuendo, but the way her cheeks blossomed into a delightfully becoming blush when her thoughts drifted towards the scandalous compelled me to overstep the line between decency and vulgar flirtation. No one else on Broadway blushed so easily. It was refreshing. In all seriousness, though, the only direction Karen required was for the party tonight. She'd never experienced anything close to what awaited her, and if she thought my innuendos were smarmy, she was in for an eye opener when potential donors caught hold of her.

The wealthiest patrons of the arts were members of that elite class who insisted on getting that for which they paid, actors and actresses included. The actor or actress in this twisted game of cat and mouse was thus required to perform a delicate sleight of hand, to _act_ pleased by the attention while invisibly shifting focus from the bulges in the fronts of pants to those in wallets. I just hoped my little mouse wouldn't be flayed bare in her first round, although knowing Karen, she'd take a whisker or two off any cat who grew too bold.

With a girlish flush still coloring her cheeks, Karen shot me another glare and marched to her mark under the center stage spot. I closed my eyes and let the resounding beauty of her voice wash over me. The song's refrain was laughable. _Don't forget me. _As if anyone in his right mind could ever forget Marilyn Monroe or Karen Cartwright.

We had an hour after the show to retreat to the hotel and don our armor for the main event. In none of my imaginings did my first date with Karen include pandering and flirting with Boston's most ardent supporters of the arts. Taking her to a little restaurant off the beaten track was more the ticket. Flowers, dinner, wine, perhaps a show... God, I bored myself with my lack of originality. I didn't even know what sort of food she fancied: French, or perhaps Italian?

Applause signaled the end of Karen's performance, so I put an immediate halt to my nonsensical fantasies. Tonight was not a date, and it mattered not one whit if Karen preferred escargot to lasagna. Michael and Karen waved me onto the stage for that requisite director's bow, which I managed with a full smile and a nod to the audience. After the last curtain, I watched my cast and crew split into their separate groups: Team Ivy and Team Karen. They paraded offstage to wipe off makeup, change, and disappear back to the hotel where they'd change again and reapply makeup in anticipation of the evening's entertainment. Sometimes the inanity of this exercise amused me, but tonight I was far too anxious to take pleasure in the simple things.

Eileen had foregone seeing _Bombshell_ in favor of wining and dining some of its prospective patrons, of which our host this evening, William Frederic Thorndike, III, was one. I assured her that Karen would attend with me, as Mr. Thorndike had a particular desire to meet the blossoming star. We quickly walked back to the hotel, and I left Karen to get ready for the festivities. Fortunately, I had no makeup to remove or reapply and no desire to fuss with my sartorial situation.

I expected Karen to take nearly the full hour and was impressed when she knocked on my door twenty minutes before our cab was scheduled to arrive. She wore much lighters shades of lipstick and eye shadow, which left her looking distinctly more Iowa than Broadway. I opened the door and let her into my room for the first time since last week's drunken sleepover. "Ms. Cartwright, you look lovely. Would you like something to drink?" I gestured to the mini bar and she nodded her acquiescence.

As I prepared her Tanqueray and tonic and my own neat, single malt scotch, I smiled a little. "I'm glad you came early. I was going to save this conversation for the cab ride, but now I can do it without an added set of ears." She shot me a suspicious look while I continued, unfazed. "Tonight is a pivotal stepping stone in your career."

She took a gentle sip of the drink I handed her and chirped out a small laugh. "It's a party, Derek. What's the big deal?"

"It's not so much a party as an opportunity to cultivate investors. If you do this right..." It took me a moment to wrap my mouth around the pretentious name of the gentleman hosting the gathering. I took a hearty pull of my drink to excuse the pause "...William Thorndike the Third will invest in every play you lead. That sort of connection can land you more and better parts."

Sometimes I forgot how uptight Karen could be when she felt she had the moral high ground. She sniffed. "So, what you're telling me is to do _anything_ I can to impress the money?" Her nose crinkled in derision.

"No. That's exactly what I'm telling you not to do. You're to promise exactly what they want." I let my eyes roam down her body and she actually crossed her hands over her chest like some cheesy romance novel heroine whose virtue was in imminent peril. I shook my head at her and, as if realizing her defensive move, Karen quickly dropped her arms again. "But you should never simply dole it out. If they get what they want from you too easily, what reason do they have to spend the money?" I remembered that first time she'd been in my apartment and knew that, so long as she didn't let herself get scared, Karen would be stellar at this game.

"Isn't that kind of cheap?"

"It's only cheap if you lose the game. It's quite expensive otherwise," I quipped, finishing my drink. She set down her half empty glass, and when I offered my arm I was happy to see she didn't hesitate to take it. We left my room and proceeded down the elevator to the lobby. The weather was as dismal as the previous week, and it was pleasant to have her warm body curved against me while we waited a brief moment for the cab to pull up.

Our conversation lapsed but I refused to give her any space in the taxi. I allowed myself to sprawl out so that each time the cab jumped or jolted, my legs brushed into hers. I vowed to make Karen Cartwright feel my presence every possible second tonight. If she got nothing else out of this trip through high society, I wanted to return her to the hotel craving more of me.

As far as I was concerned, the ride was over far too soon. The apartment complex we pulled up to suggested that William Frederic Thorndike, III was not from the understated old money which populated the brownstone condos around Beacon Street. The building before us was an industrial penthouse near the waterfront which flaunted the wealth of its tenants and, unbeknownst to them, their insecurity about their recently acquired affluence. Evidently Thorndike the Third was one of Boston's nouveau riche. Although my personal design preferences were reflected in modern architecture, I had hoped for the more compact party atmosphere a brownstone offered. As it was, I was going to have much more difficulty surreptitiously keeping tabs on Karen.

And that I would have to keep tabs on her was a foregone conclusion as soon as we entered. The whole energy of the room shifted, Karen's presence sparking a reaction much like throwing blood into shark infested waters. All the predators flocked to her so that she had an immediate entourage of five men. To my great annoyance I was quickly pulled aside by Eileen, who very much wanted me to meet the recently widowed daughter of a good family friend.

Eileen made no effort to hide her unseemly reason for the introduction. She snagged a glass of champagne and shoved it into my hand while yet again trampling tact with her crude but cunning summation of the facts. "Cynthia is going through a bit of a rough patch but has come into a substantial insurance settlement. She is thinking of investing... in Harold's memory, of course. Play nice." I took a healthy slug of my champagne, snatched a second glass from a passing waiter, and let Eileen cut our way through the crowded room. Karen wouldn't be the only one playing the room for opportunities tonight.

Cynthia was a _very_ big fan of mine, and if she was a widow she was one of the venomous varieties. Draped in a stunning red sheath dress, Cynthia had a perfect hourglass shape and used it to her best advantage. After Eileen introduced us, she quickly assured me that I could call her Cyn if I wanted. She oozed with need as she voraciously sought her next victim. I pawned off the second glass of champagne on her and made sure to keep my hand firmly on her waist so that she couldn't creep any further into my personal space. Holding onto her in such a manner allowed me to maintain our vacuous banter and gain a fairly decent view of the rest of the room, and Karen.

It took thirty minutes of light flirting and small talk to escape Cynthia's web. When I left her, though, Eileen had an additional half million for the Broadway premiere of _Bombshell_. All the while I worked Cynthia, Karen was cornered, and I saw the scared bird start to flit and flutter about.

My intentions were honorably rooted in good business practices as I made my way to her. I tasked myself with stopping her from devastating a potential investor and making a fool of herself, to say nothing of our production. Arriving at her side, I laid my hand on the small of her delectable back, of which her dress exposed a large expanse. The skin to skin contact caused her immediately to turn to me. "Gentlemen," I said, acknowledging her current audience of anything but gentlemen. "I need to steal my Marilyn for a moment." Directing Karen solely with my fingers, I led her away from her admirers, up a thin stairwell, and into the bathroom. When the door shut behind us, I pushed her up against the wall, trapping her between my arms to stop her fidgeting. I hated watching her flutter about. I whispered harshly, "You've got to stop acting scared. For one, you've nothing to fear from me." She did relax marginally when I said that. I continued, "You need to impress those men out there, and you won't if you panic every time someone comes into your personal space."

She moved her hands up to my shoulders in an attempt to push me away and I grabbed them. I took her right hand and slid it down to my forearm. "If you place your hand here and lean in, most people will be satisfied with the attention they're receiving and won't encroach on your space for more."

Karen blinked rapidly at where my hand rested on her wrist. When she looked up, her lips curled in a faintly confused moue. "Wait. You flirt as a form of _protection_? That's messed up."

"I'm not a revolutionary, darling. I'm not here to change the way it works. I don't have to like the game to win at it. Neither do you. But if you want to keep landing big roles, you must play to win. Sink or swim, Karen. What do you want?"

She pressed her pink lips down into a thin line, and I was grateful that she was actually considering my proposal rather than answering off the top of her head, as she was wont to do. She stared me down and contemplated the larger picture for a moment. I found myself honestly intrigued to hear her decision.

When she let up on her lips, the blood rushing back made them fuller and pinker than they had been before. I desperately wanted to kiss her, but our position in the bathroom of Thorndike the Third's party meant now was neither the time or place for such a move. Besides, if I started kissing her now, I'd never stop.

She let out a very audible puff of air and leaned all the way into me so that her forehead rested against my shoulder. "I can do this."

She said it more to herself than to me, but I chose to answer anyway. "Yes, you can, and you will be brilliant."

When she raised her head, our mouths were dangerously close. The sweetest of smiles curved her lips into a bow. "Thank you, Derek. You've been such a wonderful friend this week." She stood on her tiptoes, placed a light kiss on my cheek, and drifted out of the bathroom. I did not immediately follow, instead turning to the mirror and staring at my reflection. My pupils were dilated to the point that virtually no iris showed. A slight pink smudge of her lipstick remained on my cheek. I processed, cataloged and memorized every detail of her lips'outline on my skin for a full five minutes before I took a tissue and wiped it away.

I needed to get laid. Briefly, I thought of Cynthia. It would be easy, a night of mindless sex that could evaporate as soon as I awoke the next morning. She practically offered as much in our conversation earlier. The thought of her did nothing for me, however. Karen ruined me for other women. She was the only woman I wanted.

I emerged from my five minutes of solitary confinement in the bathroom to a drastically altered universe. When I reentered the living room, Karen was sitting on the arm of a loveseat. Her left arm was flung across the back of the sofa and her right hand lay softly on top of the jacket of our host. Thorndike the Third gazed up at her like an adoring lapdog. I knew Karen's laugh was fake and her smile too bright. No one else seemed to notice, however. She'd toned down her fakery just enough to put it over. Karen was at her best when she rose to a challenge. She threw a quick glance in my direction and then returned her full attention to her conquest.

The predators circled in fits of jealous rage, but what could they do? And, I was one of them. I was left outside the soft comfort of her smile, her laugh, and her touch. Yes, I circled Karen with the rest of the sharks, bouncing from one girl to the next, but I never lost sight of her. I gave her advice. I directed her, and she listened. Oh God, she listened and played it to the hilt. As her director, I couldn't complain. Hapless bastard that I was, I could only think, "_D__on't forget me_." Her final song rang in my ears, and finally I understood it. It wasn't about Marilyn, not really. As I said, who could forget _her_? It was about the rest of us, a universal anthem pulling at everyone's heartstrings. Truly, it was Tom and Julia's most masterful creation to date.

I waited until just after 1 o'clock before collecting my coat, decidedly done with torturing myself for the night. I was just inside the cab when I heard my name and looked out to see Karen standing on the curb, her coat on her arm. "Were you going to leave without me?" she asked as I scooted over to make room for her.

She climbed into the cab as I needlessly responded, "You did quite well tonight. I didn't think you required my help getting back to the hotel."

She had the temerity to punch my shoulder and, damn her Iowan roots, despite the friendly nature of the hit it bloody well hurt. She mocked me with her flippant attempt at a British accent. "You're to _promise_ exactly what they want...don't dole it out!"

The angry green monster gnawing at my gut let up, but I sullenly replied, "You're pronouncing the o's wrong." It earned another smile from her and this time on the very short cab ride, Karen didn't give _me_ any space. All too soon, we arrived at the hotel and dashed through the unrelenting drizzle from the curb to the lobby and then into the elevator, which lurched upward as Karen turned to me.

Her blush cued me into the general trajectory of her thoughts, and she had my full attention before she even opened her mouth. "Derek?" she asked, working up nerve by making my name into a question. It was a delaying tactic, but I wasn't in the mood to play nice so I merely quirked an eyebrow to acknowledge the query.

She noisily cleared her throat and then continued just as the elevator stopped on her floor. It caused her to rush the delivery of her question so that the words melded together. If not for the change in inflection, I'd have had trouble grasping what she said. "Are you free sometime this week... for dinner?"

She stuck her foot out to stop the elevator from closing but had not released my hand since we'd left the cab. It was an awkward position. I took a step forward while she took one backward so that we both stood in the hallway of her floor. The elevator gave an annoyed "ding" as it closed and fled upward to gratuitously open on my floor. "As a date?" I asked copying her words from the other night.

My lightness worked wonders. A grin spread across her face. "I can keep it strictly professional," she offered.

"I'd love to...and I won't hold you to that," I replied.

She disengaged herself from my grasp and glided down the hall. As I waited for the elevator to return, I was gratified to see her toss a glance my way before disappearing into her room. I urgently tried to keep my excitement in check. It was a simple dinner date, nothing more.

But it was a dinner date with Karen Cartwright, and I still didn't know whether she fancied French or Italian.

* * *

A/N: I assume starfish7111984 is celebrating her 28th birthday today? She's been a wonderful and consistent reviewer so I'm happy to dedicate Chapter 8 to her. Happy birthday starfish7111984. May the coming year be full of happiness and success for you.

Naturally, much debt is owed to West Coast Tasha for her dedication to good wording, structure and grammar. All mistakes are the fault of my own stubbornness.

Please drop me a review to let me know how you're feeling about the story! Trust me, reviews help me figure out where I'm going next! Happy Wednesday!


	9. Something for Nothing

On Monday morning, I didn't have a complaint with the direction of the hotel windows for I rose from bed several hours before the sun graced the sky. My hotel room was not terribly expansive but it had the perk of a small office to one side. If anyone stopped by my room early Monday morning, they would have seen me scratching and scribbling through old drafts of _Bombshell. _Tucked in my office with a measly desk lamp as the only source of light, I'm positive I looked as torn up and messy as the drafts across which I'd bled blue ink.

Rebecca Duvall did not play the lead in my production long but her brief moment in the spotlight was cataclysmic to the integrity of the play. Her inability to hold a number of notes, and our inability to listen to her butcher the songs, caused some dramatic rewrites just prior to our previews. We added unnecessary scenes, fiddled with the songs and choreography, and engineered some stiff transitions to meet Rebecca's standards and to decrease how often she had to sing. But now she was gone. Karen finished the second week of performances without a hitch. It was time to strip the rest of the script of Rebecca. In my opinion, readjusting the show to take into account our stronger and more talented Marilyn could only be a good thing.

Sadly, I am not the writer or lyricist for this show and given their collective cries of agony the last time I tampered with the script, I thought it would be best if we had a meeting first. We could all get on the same page and trash the needless garbage we'd added to satisfy Rebecca's failure to comprehend the essence of a musical.

Eileen scheduled our meeting at 9AM but I would be fully prepared to win the day by then. Given how much Julia and Tom bitched and moaned about the additions, I didn't expect a full scale battle. Still, I assured myself that it was due diligence that kept me up in the wee hours of the morning tearing through the lines of a play that were not mine to rewrite. I kept telling myself that my insomnia wasn't because every time I closed my eyes, I'd see her. It wasn't because of that tantalizing thought of a zipper running down the back of the gold dress and my bare hands running down her silky smooth skin. It wasn't because I couldn't control how my body responded to the imagined purr she made in my ear as I pulled her to me for far more than a kiss. Absolutely not. I was just insuring that my notes on the necessary changes were well and thoroughly up to date.

Because of my early start, I drank at least four cups of coffee before walking into the cluttered office space on the third floor of the theater where Julia and Tom were already lounging. Tom and I did not bother wasting words with small talk so after wishing Julia a "good morning," we all shuffled our papers and found myriad small tasks to occupy ourselves until Eileen arrived shortly thereafter with an offering of more coffee. My stomach almost turned at the thought. Regardless of its complaint, I took a cup off the cardboard carrier so I had something with which to occupy my hands while we tripped into matters of business.

We ran through some of the basic technical issues that the previews had presented and had a quick look at the state of our finances. For the first time, Eileen was all smiles about this. "Derek! I wanted to let you know that we got some very healthy donations for opening night. I knew you wouldn't disappoint!" I watched as a sneer curled across Tom's face. I was on the verge of correcting the implication of Eileen's comment but realized that the fight wasn't worth it. Tom had never truly understood how the game was played and I had more important battles to wage than the rather hopeless feat of patching my reputation to a degree of respectability that would suit Tom.

"I never want to disappoint." I offered the lame segue without waiting for the heavy awkwardness of the previous conversation to clear from the air and then continued, "That brings me to my business for the meeting today." I watched as Tom and Julia eyed each other nervously and wondered, not for the first time, if they had some way to communicate without even talking. "The late additions to the script of _Bombshell_, that were placed in largely to appease Ms. Duvall, are no longer necessary with our current lead. And I feel we would better serve the story by making sure we are not detracting from Marilyn's performance."

Tom immediately cut in as I knew he would. "They might not have been entirely necessary but the cast is familiar with them. We're getting good press so far. Why do you suddenly want to change?"

Julia placed a hand on his knee and, using the force of that silent communication, managed to shush Tom. I would have been delighted with her intervention if she didn't immediately pick up the torch. "I think what Tom is asking is _what_ do you want to change? Some of the additional songs have been very popular and they do provide some of the chorus an opportunity to more amply display their talent."

"You can't say that you actually like those flaky added scenes about the merits of acting!" I let my hand fly upward to accentuate the overtly dramatic nature of such additions. "And Karen doesn't need a bunch of 'shadow selves' to sing what she can very well sing herself." Tom puffed up like a turkey looking for love. Tom the Turkey. I mentally snickered at the moniker and knew it would stick for a time in my mental associations with him.

He gesticulated at me with his half empty coffee cup. It sloshed dangerously but the hot, inky beverage managed to stay contained. "You can't just take those songs away. A lot of people have worked very hard to perfect their parts!"

Here we were again. Turkey Tom being a mother hen for Ivy Lynn. I did not get his need to champion her at every point. He hardly knew the names of anyone in the chorus beyond his current boy toy and his long time friend. I sighed in frustration and wished that, for once, Tom would not fight my every decision. "If by 'a lot of people', you mean Ivy Lynn, perhaps you should consider that she is lucky to be employed at all and is hardly going to be so adversely affected by a shift in this script that she won't cut her way into bigger and better things soon enough."

Eileen was watching this conversation progress much as she would have watched a tennis match. Her head tipped back and forth towards which ever one of us had the floor. Apparently, she'd seen enough or someone had thrown the match point because she stood and it was our turn to tip our head toward her. She waved at us to illustrate her subject, "This conversation is not conducive. Julia, I know you weren't pleased to add the scenes for Rebecca. Do you feel the same way still?"

Julia looked a smidgen sick at having to acknowledge her well known position on the topic. Although, in truth, if I was called to describe her, I'd say that Julia looked a smidgen sick since arriving in Boston. "Well," she glanced apologetically at Tom. "The _scenes_ don't really add anything to the narrative of the story but..."

Eileen cut her off. "So, the scenes are out. Tom? Your thoughts on the additional songs?"

"The songs are fine!" Tom provided with a growl in my direction.

"So then, the songs stay as they are," Eileen said as she pulled on her coat. I nearly found my voice to protest her high handedness when she blithely continued on, "I have a meeting with another potential investor in half an hour and don't particularly want to be late. Julia, can you make sure to polish up the edited script in time for rehearsal at noon? Tom, I'm sure, will be happy to help you. And, Derek, since we're leaving the songs be, I don't see why you can't, as director and choreographer, provide whatever vision you see fit. If you really feel the need to minimize a certain part or two, I don't see how it could cause much harm."

I couldn't help the mad grin that leapt across my face as Eileen left the room with Tom spluttering obscenities. I handed Julia my notes on the script edits before beating a quick exit as well.

Naturally, after such a morning, I was in a fairly good mood by the time I came to rehearsal studio in the afternoon. As I passed the dressing rooms, Ivy's voice caused me to pause. Ivy was the queen of cool, calm and collected. If she wanted to be cutting, she did it with a laugh. There was no laughter in the dressing rooms and immediately, I knew something was very wrong with the words I heard.

"You can't seriously think that you deserve it all. It isn't my fault that you were so wrapped up in the show that your boyfriend...or is that _fiancé_?...was so bored that he hooked up with the first available barroom blond." She sounded so bitter and wounded, so very unlike the Ivy I thought I knew.

The response was choked. A voice I'd only heard from Karen once before, "You knew it was him, didn't you? You knew and you still..."

I was tempted to walk in and be the one to break up this attack but someone else-Jessica or Sue-I couldn't tell from the hushed tone, steered the conversation to safer ground. "Come on guys. We've got to be on stage in five. Karen, here's a tissue. Ivy, let me fix your wig."

I continued on content that I'd see them all in five minutes on stage. And I did but the miraculous three day cease fire between Ivy and Karen had been broken. The skin under Karen's eyes was pink and puffy. Ivy held on to her composure by freezing a smile to her face. And, everyone could feel the mounting tension. Even obvious neutral parties like Michael and Linda were warily waiting for the pending explosion. I was just glad looks couldn't kill else I'd be down a lead chorus girl and another Marilyn.

Although they weren't subtle with snarls and glares, the girls made sure I wasn't anywhere near when they traded barbs. I only caught the ends of every unscripted conversation in the room. Ivy punctuated her sentences with a series of patronizing pet name that visibly caused Karen to bristle. The collection of honeys, sweethearts and Iowas were sick-making. By the end of the second run through of the revised script, I silently vowed that I'd cut all pet names from any future discourse with Karen.

Unfortunately, Karen wasn't managing to contain the attacks with any finesse. It was a skill she was going to have to cultivate. Today, she chose to punctuate her sentences with question marks. Her constant use of question tags only made her look insecure, immature and weak when throw into contrast with the artless condescension of Ivy Lynn.

Needless to say, I didn't feel that anyone fully met their potential in rehearsal and, though I'd never have admitted it to Turkey Tom, I was wondering if leaving things as they were for the rest of previews would really be all that bad.

When I called an end to the day, cast and crew alike sighed with relief and fled the theater. When I found Karen in her dressing room a few minutes later, she was brutally shoving an extra outfit into her duffel bag. I eyed her cautiously. "Do you have plans for the evening?"

"Yes!" she hissed pulling so sharply on the zipper that it jumped the track and off alignment. She frowned at the broken bag and then up at me. "...no. I don't know, Derek. I know I said we'd go out tonight but I am really not feeling up to casually stumbling into _anyone_ associated with this production tonight." For a moment, I felt a great swell of disappointment as I thought that her 'anyone' also included me but then she continued. "Can we go some place far away from here?"

As annoyed as I had been with her questions all day, I couldn't help but acknowledge that was an exquisitely worded one. Can _we?_ Absolutely. My plans to walk her down past the greenway to Boston's famous Italian district definitely did not meet the specifications of "far away from here" or avoid the real possibility of stumbling into other cast members out taking up the more touristy sites of Boston. But why are plans made if not to be broken? Shuffling through my previous encounters with Boston nightlife, I tried to come up with an array of alternatives. I offered her my arm and we walked back to the hotel with an agreement to meet in the lobby in an hours time.

In the end, we made our way out to Harvard Square. Karen was intent on going to the first casual dining establishment she saw. It was entirely on her whim that we ended up in the crowded, cluttered dining room of Mr. Bartley's Gourmet Burgers. The room itself couldn't have been more than ten meters squared. Its lilliputian size probably added to the illusion that the restaurant was bustling past capacity on a Monday evening. The chairs were plastic. The tables were old and covered with a thin layer of grease. Frankly, I was a little appalled until I watched Karen plunk down across from me beaming. She looked like she'd just won the lottery and if all I had to do was endure the possibility of food poisoning for the evening, it was a fair price for her delight.

The hamburgers themselves were as advertised: gourmet. Topped with all sorts of weird things from cheese sauce and onion rings to hummus and pineapple, each burger was named after someone famous. As was the wont in Cambridge establishments tucked so closely to Harvard University, the menu was largely political in nature. That didn't stop us from speculating about the possibilities.

As Karen slathered a fry in ketchup, I prodded her with the all consuming question. "If you had a hamburger named after you, what would be on it?"

Karen didn't even bother to process the question and just blurted out and immediate response. "Corn! ...Oh...that's not really on it but _in _it."

I couldn't help but laugh. "How typically Iowan!"

Karen shook her head at my comment. "Actually, corn's more of a Nebraska thing. Iowa has the sheep and pigs."

"So, why aren't you topping your hamburger with lamb chops and bacon?"

She made a face at the thought. "Too much meat there." She pushed around the ketchup on her plate with another fry. I was fascinated with how she diligently soaked each of her fries in ketchup. There was so much of the condiment on her plate that it was starting to resemble the floor of a slaughterhouse. She continued her explanation after eating another of her dripping fries. "My grandmother made very large batches of meat loaf with corn in it. She'd cook enough that we had it for leftovers forever." Although she smiled at the thought of her grandmother, her expression softened just enough that I became privy to the fact that this grandmother was no longer numbered amongst the living. Still, Karen didn't allude to death as she continued with her story. "I got _so_ use to eating meatloaf sandwiches with corn in it that when I was in school, I always thought they made the hamburgers wrong." On the topic of school, her smile lost the sadness and a mischievous glint stole into her eyes. "When I told the lunch lady that she forgot to put the corn in the burgers, I think she thought I was a little touched. She always gave me extra helpings of dessert after that."

I snorted at the thought of how precocious Karen must have been when she was still attending primary school. I'm sure she got extra favors out of more than just the lunch lady. After Karen started prodding the ketchup with her pickle, she kicked me lightly under the table. "What about you? What sort of hamburger would you have named after you? Something with a typically British flare like, oh, Marmite and mushy peas?"

"Marmite and mushy peas? On hamburgers? My God, Karen, that's horrifying. That wanker you dumped has clearly failed at educating you on the finer things the British Isles have to offer. Besides," I sniffed for effect, "I wouldn't have chosen something so blatantly British."

Karen perked up at this. "Okay Derek. Surprise me with how very un-Bristish you choice of hamburger stylings would be." She giggled at the very concept of it and I couldn't help but smile back at her.

"This sounds like a contest. What will be my prize if I win?"

"I suppose if you can manage to disappoint all my presumptions about the Brits than I'll owe you a favor."

A _favor_? I should have taken that vague wording and used it for all its worth but somehow I'd managed to gain a voice of respectability and restraint as I sat on dingy plastic chairs in an American burger joint and I gave her the out, "Is this like a medieval lady granting her knight a piece of lace? Or are there no bounds to that favor?"

Karen's eyes widened and she backpedaled, "Nothing too, uh... How about I'll owe you a kiss?"

I rolled my eyes at Karen's newfound ability to turn everything into a question but, again, the query suited me so I didn't push. I had a contest to win. "I should get points for being un-British with the hamburger itself. As you well know, the outbreak of Mad Cow disease curtailed British beef production quite a bit." Karen was unimpressed with my delaying tactic. She shook her head and gestured for me to continue.

"Fine then," I offered a meager attempt to look affronted. "I'd top it with Chakalaka." Karen's look of utter confusion was so perfect, I belted out a laugh. I think the fullness of it startled both of us.

As I recovered from my own merriment, Karen smirked. "Making up words does not win you this contest. I think the Brits invented made up words. Shakespeare certainly came up with more than his fair share."

"Chakalaka isn't made up! It's a spicy vegetable slaw that, I believe, originates from southern Africa. And it is delicious – with or without hamburger. But as a hamburger topping it is completely un-British and you owe me a kiss."

Karen gave me a fully suspicious look before waving the topic off. "Alright! Alright! You win. I wasn't expecting that at all. Dare I ask how you managed to use a southern African veggie slaw as a topping choice?"

"When I was about the same age that you were harassing school lunch ladies with requests for corn in your hamburgers, I had a nanny who originated from somewhere in southern Africa. Namibia, I think."

Karen's face cracked into a slightly manic grin. "Ah ha!" She crowed. "I take it back. You _almost_ won but there's no way you can wiggle past my wall of British stereotypes when you start spouting off aboutyour nanny! I think you owe me a favor for that."

I was feeling generous so I shrugged. "I just want to make it clear that I am offering no bounds on how you use your favor." I waggled my brow at her. My antics earned a playful slap on my arm.

We sat their smiling at each other like idiots for a full minute before we both returned our focus to the meal and talked of all those inane things that only new couples can stomach. As we finished, Karen turned her warm gaze to me. "Thank you Derek. This was perfect and just what I needed! This place reminds me of home."

"Why is that? Do all the diners in Iowa name their hamburgers after famous people and politicians?"

"No. It isn't that. Just the atmosphere it's so..."

I glanced around at the overwhelming clutter of kitsch and offered my honest assessment: "Uncouth?"

Karen chortled and rolled her eyes at me. "Don't be such a snob! It's friendly. And comfortable!"

It had been comfortable and we had managed a whole meal out where we didn't bicker or tear at each other. As little as I liked lounging in plastic chairs next to greasy, papered tables, I couldn't negate her assertions. Instead, I stood and waited for Karen to come around the table. Resting my hand on the small of her back, I let her lead me out of the restaurant.

Our trek back to the hotel was swift and, in an effort to elongate my evening, I didn't let Karen escape from the elevator on her floor with out following her out. I hoped that maybe she'd grant me a goodnight kiss. Or call in her favor.

We were standing under the harsh glare of the hallway lights just outside Karen's room and I was slightly appalled to find that I felt as nervous and awkward. I hadn't felt such feelings on a date since I was fifteen. My first date had been with a girl named Ella. She lived in a flat with her grandmother just beyond the limits of the good part of Sutton and dating her was a delightful act of rebellion against my parents' dauntless social climbing. I had thought I could get a kiss, or something more, out of Ella too but the walls of her apartment building were so thin, we could hear her grandmother arguing with a show on the telly. I didn't think that Karen's deceased grandmother would begrudge me a goodnight kiss but Karen played so hot and cold, I was entirely unsure of where this might lead. I desperately wanted to believe that she was open to possibilities since she had allowed me to escort her to her room instead of just saying "goodbye" in the elevator.

My hopes aside, our delay in the hall was the fault of Karen's bag. She had one of those bottomless numbers that some women carried. She could've kept half her wardrobe, a library and a medium-sized dog in it and was naturally struggling to find the small key card that would grant her access to her room.

She offered an abashed smile in my direction. "Sorry Derek. I really should stick the key in the outer pocket."

I didn't need the apology. I was reaching greater levels of pathetic obsession. Even standing in the hall watching her delve elbow deep into her purse ranked higher on my list of things I'd like to be doing than almost any solo pursuit. I was even imagining the joys that a lost key card might afford me. I'd have to escort her back down to the main desk. Maybe the desk clerk would need some time to reset Karen's key card and get her into her room. I'd be the consummate gentleman and do the right thing by offering my room as an optimal place to wait it all out.

My imagination's meander was cut short by Karen's exclamation of "Ah ha!" She'd found the card tucked into the novel at the bottom of her bag. Karen was midway through the whimsical looking _Castle in the Air_ and my time with her this evening was in immediate peril.

She slid the card through the reader and allowed the door to click open before turning back to me. Body language says everything and a girl standing firmly in the hall with a half open door behind her did not say "Come in, Derek, stay awhile."

Her smile, on the other hand, wasn't cruel. "I had a wonderful evening, Derek." She offered and I took a step toward her just as another door down the hall opened. We both turned toward the noise and saw a white faced Ivy standing in the hall. She was dressed to go out so I couldn't see why she'd have any issue with Karen or myself having just enjoyed a similar freedom early on.

The hotel's design wasn't drafted to prevent such social drama. Regrettably, Ivy had to walk past us to get to the elevator and, being Ivy, she couldn't go by without clawing out an attack. "God, Iowa. You sure know how to pick 'em. This one won't be any more _faithful_ than your last one, you know?" And there were those fucking question tags again.

Karen sucked in a breath and I cringed inwardly. Until now, I had fully expected to get a little bit of action from Karen. In the very least, a heated kiss or two. But Ivy had effectively yanked the bandage off a wound that had not quite healed. If I got to do anything tonight, I'd be able to pat her back as she sobbed on my shoulder about the dastardly nature of men.

Ivy stormed to the elevator but any flourish she could have produced with her exit was cut short as she had to awkwardly wait for the elevator to return to the floor. She tried to hide her interest in Karen's next move. I felt no compulsion to do the same and turned my back on Ivy to look down at Karen. Her frame was almost shaking with pent up rage. She turned her eyes on me and they flashed dangerously. When she opened her lips to speak, her voice was soft but I knew she had designed the tone to carry her words down the hall. "Derek, you know that favor you promised me?"

I could only nod.

"I'm calling it in tonight." She grabbed my hand and pulled me into her room. She let the door loudly snap close before looking up at me with her angry eyes. "No bounds?"

I shook my head.

"Good," she said and threw herself at me. Our difference of height made it so she had to grip my shoulders and pull me down to her. She didn't have to try so hard for I went into the kiss unresisting. For a brief moment, my responses were slowed by the thought that I was trapped in another one of my many Karen-based fantasies but the fact that her kiss was warm and wet and tasted of ketchup shattered the thought. After tonight, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to have to rely on my imagination anymore.

Karen was angry. At Dev. At Ivy. Probably at me. There was no softness or sweetness to her kisses tonight. They were heated and fierce. If I met her with the same intensity, we'd combust right there in the foyer of her hotel room. I wasn't going to let this opportunity go so quickly; I countered Karen's frenzy with my own slow and gentle caresses. Wresting some of the control from her, I cupped her face in my hands and pulled her to me. Her face still held some of the winter chill from outside and by contrast my hands felt like they were on fire.

Tonight, Karen was made of heat. As her hands ran up my shirt to push my coat from my shoulders, I could feel every where she touched me. Like a slow burn, her heat consumed me. I assisted her with my coat and as soon as it hit the floor, her hands were tugging my shirt from my pants. Her frenzy left me breathless and my control was slipping.

She nipped and bit her way down my neck and I worked the coat from her shoulders so that our outer wear pooled around our feet like woolen snow. She'd worn her hair up and I let my fingers wreak havoc with the pins and clips keeping it neatly in place. I pushed my nose into the subtle fragrance of her hair and caught her earlobe with my teeth earning my first moan from Karen this evening. Thrilled with my success, I let my teeth slide along her neck as my hands slid to cup her buttocks. Karen was small and light so pulling her up took minimal effort. Our mouths met in a fierce battle. Her skirt scrunched up to her panties and she had to lock her legs around me so she could compete in our kiss. Her very core rested so close to me. My thumb ran along the edge of her silken underwear and the dampness of the cloth assured me that she was as affected by this as I was. She had my lower lip trapped between her teeth and I moved us slowly forward until I could feel the edge of the bed. I let gravity do the rest of the work.

We toppled onto the covers of her bed and the force of our fall jostled Karen from her kiss. She looked at me and saw, I'm sure, the mussed hair and swollen lips of a man that had been thoroughly kissed. Karen managed to unbutton my shirt so I shrugged out of it and pulled the undershirt off as well. Karen stared up at me in the soft darkness of the unlit room. She didn't adjust her skirt so I had a lovely view of her legs and the dark strip of cloth between them. Her voice was lower than I had ever heard it before. "Your favor is paid in full, you know."

I wasn't sure what she meant by that. Was it a test? Did she think I'd just walk away? I echoed her earlier sentiment as I pulled my body across hers. "Good." I pressed my mouth to hers and felt her tongue flick across my lips tentatively. "Then neither of us is under any obligation beyond mutual pleasure for the rest of the evening." With that declaration still ringing in the air, I caught the hem of her dress and pulled it up and off. Karen was laid out beneath me on her bed like a banquet. She looked a little stunned at the move but drew herself up and freed the clasp of her bra so it fell open.

She was better than any of my fantasies. The creamy roundness of her breasts were topped by the hardened pebbles of her sweet, pink nipples. We didn't get dessert but this certainly made up for that! I fell on them like a starving man and she arched into me with a hiss. I sucked and pulled her left nipple into my mouth and let my thumb and forefinger trace trails around her right so as not to leave it untended.

Even our foreplay was a musical event for Karen. Her moans were hums. Her husky whispered directions were a slow, rough jazz. I was addicted to these sounds she made and each time my hands crept lower, I wondered at what new note I could make Karen sing. I freed her from the last wet scrap of fabric and slid my hand across her core. Her raspy moan sent the rest of my blood straight into my straining erection. It had been pushing restlessly against my pants since we'd entered her room but I couldn't ignore it longer and so I left the sweetness between Karen's spread legs to pull off my pants and boxers.

I was quick and I don't think Karen even had time to realize my absence. Still, I had promised her _mutual_ pleasure and I wasn't going to go bad on my word. I trailed my hands up her smooth legs in circles watching with delight as she squirmed under my touch. She was ticklish. When she burst forth with a cascade of distracted giggles, I shifted on the bed. I went face first to the apex of her thigh and inhaled. Her intoxicating scent went to my head. The move made her nervous and I could feel her legs tighten around my shoulders until I followed my nose with my very adept tongue. I was entranced by the new sounds Karen crooned now. We'd moved beyond jazz to an almost tribal chant. Her first orgasm, however, left her profoundly silent and I swiftly moved upward for a kiss. Her flushed and sweat-dampened face gave me a rush a pride that last only as long as she remained docilely under the languid tide of her orgasm. When it passed, I found that I was on my back in a flash and Karen rose over me like the Botticellian Venus.

"Mutual pleasure right, Derek?" she murmured as she grabbed at the night stand and pulled an unopened pack of condoms from the drawer. I didn't have time to admire her preparedness. She tore a new package open and pressed it onto me and then she was above me again. The business of protection completed, she allowed me to slide into her and I lost myself to appreciation. She was tight, warm and slick. She skillfully ran her nails down the contours of my chest as she rode me with her hair in static disarray and her smile hiding all the secrets in the universe. I let her have her brief conquest before I brought my hands up from where they rested on her buttocks and flipped her back to the mattress. Her hands came up and I pulled them above her head. This gave me unhindered access to her neck and breasts and I ran my mouth across them reverently.

Our movements became more selfish as we both grasped for an end. I sought to bury myself in her as I wound my hand into hair pulling her toward me. I wanted her close and fortunately, she seemed to have a similar design for each time I pressed into her, she arched into me leaving hot, open mouthed kisses anywhere she could reach.

This time she wasn't silent as she came. My name was all her breathless aria contained and it was enough to send me over the edge. I tried to make sure my elbows kept me from falling and putting my full weight on her but I don't know how successful I was. I could only focus on the pure sensations of the moment. When my brain started to function again, I rolled off Karen and took care of the condom.

I returned to find her sitting on the bed, legs tucked under her. She'd wrapped my shirt around her nakedness for it had been easier to find in the mess of discarded clothing than her dress. She'd turned a desk lamp on and her luminous eyes caught its tepid light and glowed up at me. Still unabashedly nude, I strode back to the bed and stole a kiss from her unresisting lips and then, sitting along side her, I waited for her verdict.

She didn't offer an immediate one but licked her lips as if they were parched. Watching the pink tip of her tongue run across her swollen lips, I felt my cock twitch again. She didn't seem to notice. As fearless as ever, she looked me straight in the eyes. "What does this mean for us, Derek?" I liked to think she was as direct and as blunt as an Iowan corn...no...sheep farmer at market.

I was use to this too. Actresses expecting something from me after a lovely interlude. I held back my disappointment and asked the necessary question, "What do you want this to mean?"

"I don't know. I'm not...I..." She was struggling with her request perhaps. I didn't offer any help but stared impassively at her. Karen huffed and blew a chunk of her hair from her cheek. "Can it just be this? You. Me. A little mutual pleasure. A lot of burnt off steam."

As disappointed as I would've been if she'd demanded the world of me, I was shocked to find myself feeling just as let down that she'd demanded nothing. Nothing, however, was easy to give. I brushed the rest of her hair back from her face and offered a smile that, undoubtedly, did not reach my eyes. "Sounds like an offer I'd be a fool to refuse. I'm up for all of that, love." Her smile lit up her whole face and she released her death grip on my shirt so it fell open and I could see the creamy expanse of her chest again. Her kiss was softer this time but its timidity didn't bother me since with it was the verdict that, for tonight, I could stay.

I'd work on tomorrow...tomorrow.

* * *

A/N: And _there's_ the M rating... Let me know your thoughts in a review. :)

Edits, structural soundness and foreshadowing are all in the good hands of West Coast Tasha. Silliness and mistakes are, of course, my own.


	10. Frenemies

The problem with _tomorrow_ is that it never actually comes and _today_ is always perfectly wretched for getting things done.

It shouldn't come as a surprise that, yesterday, I had such glorious plans for my Tuesday morning. I hadn't forgotten how well Karen shared a bed. Last time we shared a bed, my morning started out rather sweetly. I woke to find her body draped across mine, our legs entwined. I was hoping for a repeat of sorts. This time she wouldn't be hungover, she wouldn't be dreaming of Dev, and she wouldn't have a stitch of clothing on. It could only end well.

We went to sleep late in the evening or we passed out after overindulging in each other. Still, despite the fulfilling hours leading up to my rest, I'm sure I spent all the time in the interim dreaming about the delectable things I had yet to do to Karen. I had one little taste of her and my hunger wasn't nearly sated. I wanted to map her body with my lips and tongue. I wanted to make her sing those sweet songs of harsh breath, furious direction, and sublime release. I wanted to wake up to that possibility.

Unfortunately, I didn't get a chance to unfold from sleep with the softness of Karen's warm body curled around mine. I was yanked from it by the sharp ring tone of an unfamiliar phone. Karen wasn't in bed and, for a second, I dealt with the crushing realization that my imagination was very, very horrifyingly good.

That was, of course, before the woman in question rushed out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped up in a towel. Showered, clothed, and answering her phone with an apologetic glance at me, Karen was already resetting herself into the role of my untouchable friend—the girl on a pedestal. Clearly my plans for erotic cartography were going to have to wait.

I glanced at the clock and was astonished to see the digital red bleeding out 9:00AM. I normally never sleep this late. I had little grace when I stumbled out of bed, grabbed as many of my crumpled clothes as I could in one sweep, and made my way to the bathroom. Karen's hotel room was smaller than mine. Some miracle allowed the bathroom to fit a sink, toilet, and shower into it but adding a person was a claustrophobic ordeal.

My shower was cold by choice and brief by necessity. I needed to talk to Karen and didn't want her to disappear before I could get out. The icy shower eradicated any last vestige of my sleepy morning and prurient hopes. When I returned to the room, I was awake enough to register the end of Karen's conversation.

"I don't know, Mom. I haven't really thought about it. This has been the most insane week. I went from being a happily engaged chorus girl to being a totally single lead. I..." Karen had been facing her window but she turned and offered me a half smile. "I have to go, Mom. I'll catch you later." A pause. "Yes. I know. I love you too." And then she let the phone drop from her ear.

An awkward silence descended on the room. We both had something to say but neither of us knew how to start. Karen had managed to pull her hair into a sloppy bun. Still wet from the shower, Karen's hair looked almost black in the dim morning light. Combined with her large, brown eyes, the wisps of hair framing her face gave her an exotic look this morning and I was pulled back into my regrets about sleeping in.

I was the first to move. I pulled her small hands forward, tossed her phone on the bed and tucked her into myself. At first she was as stiff as a board but she relaxed into my embrace. Her arms wrapped around me and I could feel her forearms as they came to rest on my back.

My voice, still unready to greet the new day, was husky. "Are we going to talk about this?" Her forehead was pressed against my chest which muffled her voice. Her nod, however, I needed no help understanding.

She took a step back but still had to crane her head up to look me in the eyes. "You won't mention this to the others, right?" Her request took me back a bit. Most of my girlfriends made a point of establishing their claim on me. For Ivy it was a kiss in front of rehearsal. The one day I put up with Rebecca, she'd taken to pulling me off into corners – not for privacy but to demonstrate that the ability to do so had been acquired. Of course, Karen wasn't a girlfriend. We were, what was it? "Just burning off steam."

Karen's laugh was humorless. "It isn't like you've always been the soul of discretion, Derek."

I wanted to pull her back into my arms. Our conversation always went better when I had physical control over her. "When have I gone about spilling your secrets?" I scoffed, stretching to remember any such failure.

Karen fell into her British mimicry and I was starting to hate that her accent always had so much of Dev in it. I'd have to fix that at some point. "Just stand up and sing 'Happy Birthday' as Marilyn. I've seen you do it." Coming out of Karen's mouth, I sounded like a bloody prat.

I offered her a smile but its bitterness made it more of a grimace. "That was a bit horrid, wasn't it? But what secrets were you trying to keep?"

"You pretty much told everyone that I'd been to your apartment. Alone. At night. While I was trying to audition!" She punctuated her phrases so fiercely she could have been rapping it to a beat.

"And?" I know I was being deliberately dense but she was being deliberately provocative.

"It was embarrassing!"

I didn't have to respond to that. I just quirked my brow up.

"God, Derek. Seriously? Fine. I'll spell it out. You told everyone that you'd had a casting couch audition with me. And I was sitting in the chorus. Think about it. I have to meet Sue for a run. I'll see you later. She snagged her phone off the bed and plucked her running shoes from a pile near the closet before marching out the door. It slammed closed with the sort of finality only heavy hotel room doors and their well-oiled hinges could produce.

I gave her a five minute head start to clear the elevator before slinking back to my room for a real shower.

At noon, we started a second rehearsal. The edits Julia had made on the script were in full play. The shifts in the choreography were too. This meant that rehearsal wasn't going any more smoothly than it had the day before. After three hours of watching the attempts at our modified choreography fail, my irritation was seeping into my direction. I had a vision in my head. I had plotted it out on paper and painstakingly explained it to the cast. Still, no matter how often the dance was run, it felt wrong. The reality did not match the vision. On the fifth take of "History is Made at Night", my frustration found its vent with Karen. "No! It's step, ball change, step. Can we at least _try_ this time 'round, Ms. Cartwright?"

Ivy was sitting with a trio of cohorts in the wings took the moment sneer. "That was quick, Iowa. He's already tired of being nice to you. Won't be long now..."

Karen flushed red at the comment. She turned to Ivy and shrilly told her to shut up. Ivy's friends tittered and though I was loathe to do it, I knew it was time to call a break. "Enough. We're taking ten minutes. Now." I shot a glare at Ivy. "Everyone go lose your petty vendettas and find some ability to focus."

I knew I needed to follow Karen backstage but didn't want to be too obvious about it. I took the whole stack of papers in front of me and counted backwards from sixty while shuffling them. I felt like I had projected enough disinterest that when I stood, a minute later, to amble backstage, only Linda glanced my way.

As I neared the dressing rooms, I stopped. Bobby and Karen were talking. Or, Karen was getting through a hiccuping sob and Bobby was trying to pull her back to working order. A compassionate Bobby was so out of character that I froze in the darkness of the hall to listen.

"Come on, Iowa. Don't fall to pieces over a little snark. You _really_ need to get a thicker skin or, at least, stop parading around acting all TCFS."

Karen sniffed. Her voice still weak and overly emotive, she squeaked out a question, "TCFS?"

I could practically hear Bobby's eye roll. "TCFS. Too cool for fucking school."

Karen let out a wet laugh at that though I didn't see how it was funny. "There's too many F's in there," she snuffled again.

I could hear them shuffling around the dressing room. After an exaggerated pause, Bobby corrected, "The fucking isn't there for real. It's implied though." There was another pause, the sound of a brush hitting a table and the sound of someone pulling a handful of tissues out of the box were my only indication that they were still present. "Look." Bobby again. "You're still the new kid. We all know you've got chops. And we all know you can own the lead in this...we just need to see you're actually human sometimes too. Come out with us tonight and just chill. No talk of the play. No talk of awful exs. No talk of the Dark Lord either."

"Ivy?"

"Ivy and Tom are going to have some 'girl time' - her words. I'm guessing whatever shopping district they hit up won't be anywhere near our trashy bar. Ivy's on the list of untouchables too. You won't be talking about her either. Touchy issue for most of us, okay?"

Karen must have nodded her assent because Bobby's voice rang out again with a clipped, "Good. We'll see you at Tam's. 6ish." And then my ability to eavesdrop was ruined by one of the stage hands trundling passed with a cart of costumes.

No Dark Lord. I knew I wasn't winning any points with Karen today and wasn't going to ruin her bizarrely positive exchange with Bobby so I turned on my heel and stalked back out to wait the final seven minutes of break trying to put the papers I had shuffled back in proper order.

Thankfully, rehearsal went much more smoothly after that. Ivy kept her asides to whispers. Karen rediscovered her ability to execute simple dance steps and we managed a run through the entirety of the play with the new choreography. Our final run through was good enough that I wouldn't have been embarrassed to see it as a live performance. My irritation didn't dissipate however and I found that the more focus my actors had, the less I had. I kept running through different conversations in my mind—conversations I might have had with Karen this morning or this afternoon. All of them ended better than the one we'd had in reality and, for the second time today, I reflected on how very good my imagination could be.

As I called an end to the rehearsal, I watched as Karen managed her vanishing act and the rest of the company scurried off. I had no plans for the evening. Eileen did not need me to parade about as her pet director at any functions. Karen was at a bar with her ever-growing list of frenemies and I was not supposed to be a topic of conversation; she didn't need me. I empathized with her. I was feeling so morose, I didn't particularly want to be in company with myself either.

At least, that had been my thought until I walked out of the theater and ran smack into Harold Levester. Harold Levester's gray hair was carefully plastered out of his face. It was startling to see for it hadn't been so gray the last time I had seen him. Notably, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of Harold in nearly eleven years. As surly and morose as whiling away the evening with my self would have turned out, I knew my evening had taken a very definite turn for the worst.

Harold's hand landed on my shoulder with a hardy thump. "Derek Wills! Imagine running into you here!"

I offered him a smile but only one side of my mouth obeyed the command. "Yes. Imagine that." Harold was a theater critic for the New York Times. If he was lurking around the Wang Theater while we were running previews of a show meant for Broadway, this meeting was no accident.

Harold laughed and in his booming voice carried on like we were long lost friends. "You heading to dinner? I was just going to grab a bite at a little place around the corner. Join me."

I'd told Karen that you didn't have to like the game to win at it. While very true, I didn't like Harold's game at all and, worse still, I didn't think I was going to win at it tonight. Shunning a prominent New York critic, however, was certainly not in the cards. "Sure thing, Harold. Lead the way." I gestured for him to start and followed along beside him. He veered off in the direction of the restaurant from which he'd planned to interrogate me and I suppressed a very tired sigh.

Harold, at least, kept up his blustery line of banal small talk until I had finished my pint of Newcastle and half of the sandwich in front of me. He had good tactics. Slowed by alcohol and a meal, I couldn't simply flee the restaurant once he started prodding for information. I planned to cut out of this dinner as quickly as possible but he knew as much and cut to the chase.

"You and Levitt doing another show, eh? I thought for sure you two would never work together again."

Since Harold's scathing article about our last collaboration was a sizable part in our less than cordial affiliation, I only offered a non-committal shrug in response. Harold really should have to read his own version of the Miranda Rights to anyone he interviews. "Anything you say will be held against you..." Eleven years ago, I had been foolish enough to think that venting my spleen to an old family friend wouldn't later get printed in a vitriolic review of the production I was directing. I was very wrong. I may have once been young and stupid but I do occasionally learn from my mistakes.

Harold didn't need me to comment though. He was just fishing for an angle at this point. He'd spend another week or two snuffling around trying to find the meat about _Bombshell_. Unfortunately, there was a lot to find. With an A-list actress dodging out of previews, an overdose from one of the lead chorus girls during the first week, and a totally green lead stealing headlines,my play's opening reviews could fill the pages of any number of gossipy rag sheets. I'd have to remind my cast and crew to be careful with their words around critics. Though I had to wonder what Harold was after. If he was looking for something more than the already known gossip, he'd taken the wrong person out to dinner. I'm sure the cluster of company members drinking up the street at Tam's would have given him a whole lot more to think on.

I had my sound bite ready. "Levitt and Houston have done a masterful job of creating this musical. It has been a fast road from workshop to previews but we're working out the final designs for _Bombshell _ here in Boston and will be ready to premiere on Broadway very soon. If you haven't seen the show yet, Harold, I can comp you some tickets."

He waved off my offer. If he hadn't seen the show yet, he certainly already had tickets for an up-coming performance or two. "You've had a lot of drama during previews, I hear."

Again, I didn't need to comment. This was general knowledge and I wasn't going to fill him in on anything more than that. "We've hit a few roadblocks but I'm pleased with the direction we're heading."

Harold shot me a look. I was being decidedly unhelpful and he was trying to think of some angle that would crack me open. I pushed around my food but didn't really feel up to eating any more of it. When the waitress came by, I signaled for the check. His time was waning and I hoped he was set to let me go easily.

"It's always good catching up with old friends," he offered. "It has been too long."

I smiled and nodded as I signed the receipt with a flourish. "Yes. It has. We should do this again sometime. You'll have to let me know what you think of the show." As I stood, Harold shuffled to his feet as well. We stood close together in the dimly lit restaurant and Harold managed to pat my shoulder again. "I'm sorry to hear about your father, Derek. He was...a good man and he deserved a better end."

My father was not a topic I wanted to discuss with anyone and, especially, not with Harold. I gave up playing any game. We weren't more than a block from the hotel but I didn't want to risk having Harold follow me back. Stiffly, I thanked Harold for his company at dinner and, without waiting to see if he'd follow, fled the restaurant. I flagged down the first cab I saw and had the driver take me all the way across town and then back, again, to the hotel. The cabbie spoke very little English and probably thought I was mad but he happily accepted the commission.

Tom had been right. Harold and my father had been lovers. That thought alone didn't bother me. Well, it bothered me as much as it would any child grappling with the thought of a parent's sexual escapades. What I didn't want to deal with was that my father was now dead...and Harold could have been the one to put him there.

It wasn't long after my broken friendship with Tom and failed production that my father had tested positive for HIV. In those days, antiretroviral drugs hadn't been as well-established. HIV was considered little more than a prelude to AIDS and AIDS was a slow, dirty, and heinous death sentence. Dad had decided to make it a quick death sentence instead. He swallowed a bullet from his own handgun. His note made it clear that Harold hadn't been his only lover but the thought that he could have... Well, I had more than one reason to dislike Harold Levester.

I got back to the hotel at 8PM and spent the next four hours exploring the varieties of alcohol in my mini-bar. I was blissfully numb when I heard the knock on my door. I was tempted to ignore it but was quite glad I hadn't been so lazy. When I swung the door open, I found Karen on the other side. Her arm was still hovering in the air as if she was on the verge of knocking a second time. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her into my room.

"Ms. Cartwright," I said. Or, I think I did. At this point, I was no longer the master of my words. "What brings you to my doorstep this fine Tuesday evening?"

She had on a cute, little red dress and her handbag hung limply from her wrist. She'd clearly just returned from the bar and I hoped that she was at least mildly intoxicated so she'd forgive my own drunkenness.

"I, uh, wanted to apologize for earlier...for this morning. I think I may have been a little harsh."

I didn't think any such thing but didn't want to dwell on it. "Apology accepted," I offered. I thought about offering a similar apology but felt it would be diminished as a return of favor. Instead, I brushed a curl that had fallen from Karen's hurried up-do behind her ear. This close to her, I could feel the alcohol-induced numbness begin to recede. Karen leaned into my hand.

I cleared my throat and tried to think of an elegant way to phrase the question burning in my mind but eventually gave up. I dropped my hands to her hips and pulled her towards me. I ran them across the curve of her waist until they rested on the small of her back.

"Yesterday, you said that we were going to leave it at 'mutual pleasure and burnt off steam'," I summarized though I knew she hadn't forgotten. She nodded up at me and I let my hands wander lower to the curve of her butt. "Was that just yesterday? Or are we...can we?" I didn't have the ability to finish my sentences but Karen was merciful. Either she could feel how much I needed this moment or she needed this as much as I did.

In the end, it didn't matter. The handbag crashed to the floor and I scooped her up into my arms. She anchored herself to me with her legs wrapping around my waist. I burrowed my face into her neck and could feel the arrhythmic beat of her heart as I kissed a line down her carotid artery. For the first time since I'd woken this morning, the world felt right. I tightened my hold on the one person who seemed to be the key to that rightness and made my way towards my bed.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting! It took a time to figure out what I wanted after that last chapter. :) Thanks to everyone who fed me reviews. I'm pretty sure my writing fuel is a mix of your reviews and highly caffeinated beverages. So, uh, thanks!


	11. Truth or ?

We didn't always see much of each other during the day but our nightly interludes were becoming a certainty. Despite our busy schedules, we found a way to end the night together. Her room or my room – it didn't matter.

It was our fourth week of previews, a Wednesday night after a particularly unmemorable rehearsal, and we found ourselves lingering in my suite. Our amorous endeavors had left Karen's long hair curling in disarray around her shoulders. She looked delectable and was in a playful mood. I had taken up residence on the couch as she lounged in the bed carelessly twirling the stem of her purloined wine glass. (The bar on the top floor had been very accommodating). "Truth or Dare?"

So caught up in admiring the soft flush of her skin, I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"

Her laugh wasn't soft but I had a growing appreciation for its brassiness. She repeated the question.

"I take it I'm your primary school playmate right now? When I'm done with this, shall we play hide and seek next? Or tag?" I quirked my brow and made a face but was intrigued as to where such a game could potentially take us. We were both desperate to make it through previews with no more drama outside the scripted bit that ran Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings; Karen and I were careful to not discuss or flaunt our relationship. This wasn't a terribly difficult thing to do primarily because "relationship" wasn't something we discussed at all. Since we were stuck in the confines of the hotel whenever we wanted to just be together, we were both walking the precarious edge of being totally stir crazy. I couldn't imagine what sort of trouble a 'dare' would get us given the limitations of our current space so I took the safer option. "Truth."

She hadn't thought beyond the start of her game. She hummed her verbal pause as she struggled to come up with a suitable question. I expected her to aim for secrets and scandal. So, it was my turn to stumble through verbal pauses when she tossed out "Favorite childhood game?"

"Um..." I snorted as I scrounged through my memory for the answer. "You were probably just born when I was obsessing over it. And there's no way you'll have heard of it. Scotland Yard? Chasing Mr. X through London?"

She shook her head. "So you wanted to be a spy? James Bond and all that?"

My look of horror earned another unabashed laugh. "Scotland Yard is for detectives not spies. It was a board game...a bit like the American Clue. And I'll not answer another question until you choose: truth or dare?" I got off the sofa and refreshed her wine and my own before resettling next to Karen on the bed.

She must have had the same reluctance to see where a dare would take us and was quick to choose a 'truth' and I learned Karen had a childhood collection of stamps and pennies tucked away in her parents attic in Iowa. I would dearly love to see what other remnants of Karen's past were tucked away in Iowa but she'd moved on to the next question: did I ever cheat on an exam.

Innocuous though the questions may be, the game was addictive and we quickly stopped offering the option of 'dare' in our haste to uncover the next childhood memory or long held favorite. This was how I found that Karen loved frozen Snickers bars, had an illogical fear of panda bears, and knew curse words in at least ten languages. She, meanwhile, uncovered my undying love of homemade macaroni and cheese, my preference for the Fantastic Four over all other comic book heroes, and the still tender disappointment of not getting an Erector Set on my fifth Christmas. Our wine glasses, long since emptied, lay untouched on the floor. Her fingers traced circles along my arm and mine caressed her scalp and made a greater mess of her hair. It was the most undemanding physical contact I'd had with someone since I could remember; it was perfection.

We had kept our questions playful and light but her soft touch distracted me and I let my next question slip from mind to mouth unfiltered. "Did you always want to be a star on Broadway? Or did you have other aspirations?" Such a question had the potential of destroying the beautiful levity of the game but Karen didn't seem to notice. She shifted in my arms and smiled.

"I think every kid has a weird phase where they want to be something _else_. When I was in first grade, we took a field trip to Kalona. That's where there's a big Amish settlement. I got it into my head that I really wanted to be a farmer."

I couldn't help but chuckle at that. My laughter must have startled Karen and it made her aware that she was partially sprawled across me. To my chagrin, she started to shift away. I made sure to resist her escape attempt and once she resettled in the crook of my arm, I admitted, "I've always imagined you live in a little farmhouse out in the prairies of Iowa anyway."

"Oh! We do!" She supplied. Pictures of apple-cheeked Karen, in overalls, pitching hay danced through my mind. I had no concept of what an agrarian lifestyle might be like but felt that _Oklahoma_! and _Wizard of Oz_ had to have some truths. "Kalona didn't make me want to be any kind of farmer. I wanted to be an Amish farmer. I mean, the whole nine yards. No electricity. Horse and buggy. Dipping candles. I was a hardcore convert when I was seven."

My outburst of laughter was so intense that Karen had to push me off her and squirm to the other side of the bed. She threw a generous pout my way. "Don't laugh at me! You must have wanted to be something silly once too."

It took me several more moments and lots of failed attempts to draw a breath. "Okay. Fair enough. I mean," A burst of laughter escaped one last time before I tamped it down. "I initially wanted to be a pirate. Sail the seven seas. Treasure and booty." I couldn't help myself, I slid my hand south and gave Karen a rakish pinch. "I was very young then but I moved on. I did fancy myself a herpetologist for a year or two."

Karen had made her way back into my arms at this point. She looked baffled. "A what-ologist?"

"A herpetologist. I wanted to study snakes. I think I was seven or eight. I made four nannies quit in the span of a month before my parents banned me from such a promising future career."

"Is that why you moved onto Broadway? Your parents refused to let you follow your calling?" The mischievous sparkle that danced in her eyes required me to pull her in for a kiss. My mouth pressed firmly into hers as I swallowed her giggle.

Her hair fell into my face and for a moment we forgot about dreams past and focused on the hot rush of electricity that charged our physical encounters. After several bruising kiss, I finally brushed her hair back and answered her question. "I suppose that must have been it. With two parents in the business, I think I was a bit of a foregone conclusion. And you? How could a good little Amish girl find herself in such a devilish city as New York?"

Working with actors and actress meant I was use to people spinning stories, crafting elaborate lies, and acting out whatever image they chose to represent. The most refreshing thing about Karen was she very rarely tried to be anything other than what she was. Sometimes it was frustrating – that starry-eyed innocence bleeding into what I often thought should be a more polished and professional casing. Tonight, however, I couldn't help but admire it. "I'm not sure I had much of a choice either. It was just meant to be. I can't see being anything else. I didn't expect to land so high so fast and I am—was— willing to put my years in as waitress/chorus girl but I've known for years that all I ever wanted was to be on stage." She kissed me full on the mouth. It was quick, light, and sweet. "Thank you for helping me live my dream, Derek."

As plebeian as it was, even I could admit to having something akin to a crush on Karen but tangled in the sheets of my hotel bed and playing a childish game of 'Truth and Dare', I realized that it was much more than that: I was falling in love with her.

* * *

In a very short span of time, we'd taken the dregs of an idea and crafted a masterful story. _Bombshell_ isn't just any story; it's the sort of show that had the power to bring the audience to its feet again and again. People left the theater glowing with the contentment of a good show wrapped around them like their faux fur shrugs. With the potential for a very long run on Broadway, we all knew that it would likely make us all wealthier and more famous. Even in the few weeks of previews, the show had already started to snag attention beyond the theater world. I knew I should be elated but something wasn't right.

I couldn't complain about anything in my professional life. We had a smashing success. _Bombshell_ was perfect: storycraft and art, dazzling dances, and refined kitsch. I should have been head over heels in love with this play and thrilled at my piece in it. The show was polished to a shine. Rehearsals were quickly becoming unnecessary but, given Karen's newness to the role, we kept at them throughout the week. The preview schedule gave us enough time to keep working on the performance. Once we got back to New York, the more rigorous show schedule of Broadway wouldn't allow us that luxury.

And we would be on Broadway. Of that, I had no doubts. The professional critics were starting to saturate our audience. Our initial preview press had been marvelous. The drama of an understudy taking over the lead role and the loss of a big name star had quickly drawn attention to the show. The success of said understudy ensured the attention remained positive. The critics who sat in the audience with a pen and notepad each weekend weren't writing glib reviews for the local papers now. They were working on the reviews that would be published after we opened on Broadway. I was sure I'd seen press badges from _The Record_, _New York Daily News_, _The Post_, and _The Star-Ledger_. I had yet to see Harold make an appearance at a show but had no doubt he was lurking around my cast for just the right angle, just the right personality to give his review that added flair.

I had everything I'd ever defined as a want but I felt like I had nothing. My world view had narrowed to only take into account the fragments of time I spent with Karen.

We were never good at goodbyes but Karen and I fell into a routine which rarely required them. If she stayed in my room, I'd always wake to find her gone. If I stayed with her, we'd part quietly in the morning. We never dissolved into the anger and fireworks of our first night together but we also didn't fall into unnecessary recriminations, justifications, or conversations. Not voicing it, not defining it, did not make it any less real but it did make the essence of our developing friendship less tangible. Clear boundaries and a solid definition are the heart of any functional relationship. It is where I had failed so miserably with Ivy – where Rebecca and I had found our only success. Everything and nothing. I was a fool to complain but I wasn't content and knew that our relationship, undefined and unacknowledged, was teetering on a precipice. Worse still, this burgeoning feeling of intimacy and love was suffocating my ability to demand, define, or shape the relationship. And why not just take control? It is what I do. I direct. I control. I'm very good at what I do but I didn't want to demand anything of Karen for fear of scaring her away.

Karen and our relationship. That's all I could think about these days so naturally, those were exactly the thoughts on my mind as I was leaving the theater after working with the technical crew on a change in lighting cues. It was late on a Thursday and I was sure Karen wouldn't be back to the hotel yet. She had gone off with a gaggle of the company for dinner, drinks, and dancing. As I turned the corner, I jostled into someone and a manila envelope full of photos fluttered to the ground. I was sharpening a scathing retort when I heard the deep chuckle and looked up into Harold's beaming face. _Shit_.

"We really got to stop running into each other like this!" Harold crowed as he bent over to retrieve the envelope. I almost made my escape while he was distracted with the task but then I realized that the photos he was shuffling together were all of me. I knelt down to gather the few remaining ones. One was a shot of me and Ivy looking quite cozy in my apartment – at the first party I'd thrown for investors. In another, I was in a bar, here in Boston, with Rebecca. It was the night we both got smashingly drunk and I knew we'd end up back in my hotel room. The other three I'd picked up were candid shots of Karen and I as we were out and about town. They were nothing too scandalous but in each, we were close enough to make the clear suggestion that we were more than friends.

Harold held out his hand for the photos but I didn't return them. I stood so I could get the gratification of making him look up at me. "What are these, Harold?"

He laughed again and this time it sounded much more sinister than it ever had before. "Just piecing together my review. You know how I like to get a fresh angle. Would you like to make a comment? Or even a 'no comment' would do nicely."

"I'm not sure what my personal life has to do with the review for _Bombshell_." I flapped the photos again.

"You still don't get it do you? Reviews that have any bite are always about the _personal_. That's what people like to read. That's why that review of your last collaboration with Levitt was such a hit. All that illusion of instability corrupting the show. Personal grudges, broken friendships! It's dynamite. But, I think this one is going to be better. Scandalous relations with the leading ladies. An understudy that steals the boyfriend of a movie star."

I was seeing red. "Leave Karen out of this."

"I can't! She's the star and, better still, a star no one knows about. This is the story coming out whether you like it or not. Your only choice is to provide the spin. Is she the undercutting, boyfriend thief or is there a better angle that you'd be willing to provide?"

So I truly hadn't learned anything in eleven years. Here I was, again, talking with Harold Levester and what came out of my mouth at this moment was going to be put into a potentially damning piece in the _Times. _Although Broadway was full of all the drama of cheating on significant others and shallow friendships, Karen didn't really need her first big press review to paint a red 'A' on her. She'd be crushed. "Keep Karen out of your story and I'll tell you everything you'd ever want to hear about the rest of this."

"I can't do that, Derek. You know we're all dying to get a little more dirt on Karen Cartwright. I'll be the first to have any concept she's in a relationship with you at all. It's solid gold."

I felt like a fish out of water. I was floundering about grasping at anything. I knew I had much better than gossip to fill Harold's column if I was willing to talk about it. Anything else I spilled would come with a steep price though. Karen's voice was chanting in my mind: "All I ever wanted was to be on stage...thank you, Derek, for helping me live my dream."

"Do you have the whole Rebecca story?" I asked. Eileen was going to murder me. Harold's eyes lit up with an unholy glee.

"You'll tell it?"

"If you ditch this preposterous angle," I cut back flapping the photos out of his reach again.

Harold took a moment to think on it. I'd offered him a very big story. One that the creative team had remained completely mute on until now. He'd be a fool not to take me up on it. And Harold wasn't a fool. Still, he could drive a hard bargain. "Alright, Derek. You tell me what you got on the rest of this fiasco and I'll give you the personal grist I've got on Ms. Cartwright to do with as you will. But...and this is my steadfast condition...you eliminate any need for me to write on it. If any of the other press junkies finds out you're an item, you can bet the story of your relationship will run in front of whatever review _Bombshell _gets."

"Are you telling me I shouldn't date her?" I scoffed.

"I'm telling you that if you do continue to gallivant around town with her, I'm going to have no choice but to run my first story. And, really, what does it matter? Since when do you date anyone?"

That wasn't a question I'd answer for Harold Levester. And again, that horrid feel of having everything and having nothing consumed me. "There's a nice little bar around the corner...if you'd like to sit for awhile," I offered with as steady a voice as I could muster under the weight of overwhelming loss.

* * *

A/N: And I'm so, so sorry that this has taken so long! I was fighting uncooperative characters! I truly appreciate all the wonderful reviews and extra thanks to West Coast Tasha for talking me through plot points.

And, again, thank you for your patience. I hope the wait was worth it...


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